


My Baby Does Me

by somebackgroundnoise



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2019-11-04 13:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 98,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17898875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebackgroundnoise/pseuds/somebackgroundnoise
Summary: Your best friend meets Roger Taylor at a club, and he invites her (and you) to a Queen party.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ongoing fic; published on my tumblr first, then here; I update maybe twice a week.

“You’ll never guess who I met!” Your best friend, Lydia, screeched. Running into your bedroom.

You sat at your piano. You had been under pressure to learn a rather difficult Liszt piece for your senior showcase. Your showcase, you knew, would be one of the most important days of your life; agents and scouts from symphonies, touring companies, theaters, clubs from all around Europe would be there seeking the next big star, the next virtuoso to join their ranks. You were humble, but very gifted in music. And you always had been. Music came as easily to you as dreaming did to others. Music was your life, and Lydia knew it was only a matter of time before you hit it big and became somebody.

You had been practicing like an obsessed shut-in for weeks. Lydia kept trying to pull you away from your “hermit cave,” as she had taken to calling it. She’d rush in and interrupt your work. You loved her and had been friends for years, but your lives were taking you in different directions and you hoped you’d both find a way to maintain your closeness even if you were separated by great distances. She’d erupt into your room, and you’d be absorbed in your music, the rhythms, the sounds; playing scores, you’d teleport to places you’d never been, times you’d never seen, you’d feel everything the musician had put into his or her works. You came alive, you became irresistible, incandescent. However, since you were so caught up in the moment when you played, this was never anything you knew, or experienced or saw for yourself. Your piano your solace away from the world.

“Hello!? Y/N, can you hear me?” Lydia waved a hand in front of your face.

“Sorry, yes. What did you say?” You sounded far away even to yourself. You saw a crease appear in Lydia’s forehead, half-concern, half-irritation. You took a breath and painted a smile on your understatedly beautiful face. Taking your glasses off, you said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied lately. I want to make it up to you.” You reached out and touched Lydia’s shoulder to hammer the point home. The flowery, flowy shirt under your hands slipped out of your grasp as she took your hand in hers.

“I met someone tonight.” Lydia squeezed your hand to make sure you were really all there.

“Oh?” You had never seen Lydia like this before. Upon closer inspection, you noticed she was flushed, jittery, and unequivocally giddy. “What’s going on?”

“He’s a certain blond rock-god.”

“Get out of here!” You took your hand out of Lydia’s with a laugh, and turned back to your piano. Your friend had pulled this prank many times before. She was into Roger Taylor like most people were into skydiving; everything for her was an extreme sport, she never half-assed anything. It was one of the things you liked most about her; she was all passion and she had the confidence to be loud about it. You wished you had her effortless peacock-esque flare, her showy charm, and, god, she had the best hair of anyone you had ever met: wheat-colored, falling to her waist in easy beach waves. Your own hair was coarse, stubborn, thick and black like the music notes you scanned continuously.

“Y/N! I’m serious! I met Roger Taylor at a club tonight! Queen is back and he invited me to a party tomorrow night! You have to come with me! Please?”

You searched your friend’s face for a sign of duplicity, and to your surprise and delight, found none. “Okay…you’re telling me you ran into Roger Taylor at a club and he invited you to a party tomorrow night?”

“Yes!”

You knew you should stay home and practice this etude, but the allure of a celebrity party called you, and you knew you weren’t powerful enough to ignore the siren call of the most talented musicians rock ‘n roll had to offer.

“Roger. Taylor.” You smirked.

“Roger fucking Taylor.” Lydia grinned at you. You stared at each other, both starting to giggle at the absurdity of it all.

“I’ll go with you,” you smiled up at your friend, “though I have no idea how we are going to pick what to wear with only a day’s notice!”

“I know, right?!”

“What was he like? Roger?” You asked, making your way to the closet.

“Shameless flirt. Great style, though. He had this hat on, ugh I swear! the hat alone made me pregnant.” Lydia’s laugh gonged around the room.

“Was he alone?” You tried to sound as innocently nonchalant as possible, but Lydia knew you well enough to know what you were getting at; she never let you get away with anything. You saw the steely glint in her eyes and knew what was coming.

“Don’t you mean, ‘was a certain bassist there?’”

You instantly blushed a deep crimson, the same color as the t-shirt you were wearing. You hid your head in your hands and groaned loudly. Your head crashed onto the keys of the piano, and a clanging chord rang out sympathetically, as if your piano knew your embarrassment, too. You had a certain weak spot for John Deacon; Lydia always said the best friends had different tastes in potential partners. If you had different tastes, you’d never fight over who got someone, who saw whom first, who had a claim. In this respect, your friendship was sheer perfection.

“He wasn’t there, but Roger did say something like ‘If you come to this party, I’ll be able to show you off to the band–beauty like yours should be shared’ or something like that anyway.” She tried to sound casual.

“Roger Taylor said that to you?” You looked at Lydia, in a blouse and jeans, she was glistening. Not even a stitch of makeup on her face, and the most famous drummer in the world was smitten with her. What hope did you have of being noticed, you wondered? You frowned, looking down at the familiar keys.

Lydia read some of this in your face and sat next to you. “Y/N, you know you’re gorgeous. I know–before you start–I know you think I’m supposed to say that because I’m your friend. But you know I don’t just say things to please anyone. I’m just not made that way, I’m too honest. You’re beautiful. I know you don’t always believe it. I hope you do someday. Or at the very least, that you’d trust your best friend wouldn’t lie to you. We’ve known each other forever. You’re the most talented person I know; you never had to work hard at school, you’ve always been able to do whatever you put your mind to, you can play any instrument you pick up. You are so worth knowing and loving. That, and you’re the sneakiest person I know, with the most uncanny wit.”

“So, I have a great personality? I’m the great personality girl?” You asked, with a sarcastic smile.

“You know what I mean! I’m just a pretty face,” Lydia said, “and that’s all I’ll ever be; you have a pretty face and a brain; you’re lucky.”

This is why you kept Lydia around; she was selflessly loyal, and always knew what to say to trick you out of an emotional black hole. She didn’t think much of her mind, but only someone truly keen could weave together words into self-confidence. “Come on, let’s pick out options for tomorrow night.” You hugged her tight, and you knew she was satisfied.

***

You settled, with help, on an olive-green dress, the same color as your eyes. It wrapped around your body, highlighting your waist, and your hourglass curves. You didn’t yet understand the kind of power your body had over people; you felt out of proportion constantly, too short to have your sweet ass and flashy chest. You’d have to buy shirts that were too large, pants that were too baggy, too long because they just didn’t make close for shorter people that weren’t shaped like teenage boys. And a teenage boy, you weren’t! You had the body to prove it. You always looked a little under-tailored because of it, a little accidentally shabby. This dress, however, was a rare exception in your closet. It created a great V-neck to expose just a pleasant hint of your breasts, and did little to obscure the geography of your round ass. Your arms, you were secure with more than any other part of your body; from hours at the piano, holding your arms up, they were toned and tattooed. The sleeves of the wrap-dress covered the colorful art and words you had painstakingly chosen for yourself. You felt incognito when you hid the tattoos, like you always had a secret up your sleeve, an extra card to play, a slight mystique to add to the atmosphere most people never expected to come from a self-confessed nerd like you. You adjusted your large glasses, and reapplied your lip-gloss. Looking in the mirror you adjusted your bangs, squeezing clumps of your hair to make the natural ringlets sing. You had added to the outfit, at your instance, black spangled tights, and black heeled oxfords. Maybe a little dated, but they made you feel good, and that’s what mattered most. You checked your light makeup, glitter-blush and thin foundation was all you felt inclined to do. Lydia said she’d help you do more, but you refused; if you had to change who you were to impress someone, they weren’t worth it.

Lydia came around the corner and poked her head in the doorway, “You ready?” She was wearing a dark red dress that kissed her body to the floor. She was fully clothed but looked naked at the same time; she was a true diva and you had no idea how she did it. All silk and lush hues, she was ready to stop anyone and everyone dead in their tracks. Her hair was half up on her head in a way that looked planed and like a happy accident simultaneously. Her lips, full of daring, were lacquered cherry-red. She had a gold chain around her neck, dropping to her navel; she could have been a movie star.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again, your dress seemed demure by comparison now, and you were second-guessing everything. Was a high-low wrap dress the way to go to a Queen party? Was the color terrible? Was going at all a mistake? You twisted the large statement ring on your finger.

“Y/N?! You look stunning! Perfectly engineered to destroy any room you step into.”

You sighed, “Okay, you’re right; Let’s do this, or I never will.”

Lydia waved down a taxi. She told the driver the address Roger had given her, and off you went. The taxi sped along the night, and you wished the anticipation of arriving could last forever. The going to a party was almost as exciting as the arriving at the party itself. The feeling of possibility, of not knowing what was to come, and yet knowing anything could happen was intoxicating. You felt a shiver run up your spine. You were happy to be here with your best friend on the edge of limitless opportunities. Eventually, the taxi stopped and you paid the fee.

You and Lydia left the taxi and approached the door, and a man stood outside; he had the unmistakable air of security. He scrutinized you and Lydia. “Names?” He asked, lazily. You noticed he had list with him, and suddenly worried if you’d be allowed in or not.

“Lydia Taylor,” your friend said, not missing a beat.

The guard laughed to himself.

“Hey, wishful thinking pays off, mister.” Lydia flipped her hair, and you knew the guard was under her spell, too. “Lydia Wesmor, and I brought my friend with me. Y/N L/N,” she hooked elbows with you.

“Well, Lydia Taylor and Y/N, enjoy yourselves.” He gave you a slight smile and stepped aside.

As you and Lydia entered the vast townhouse, you saw glimpses of room after room decorated in splendor and–well, if classy ostentation exists, it somehow does in this space. High ceilings, rich window hangings, art adorned the walls, and sculptures, too many to count, and probably priceless in worth, decorated the rooms in view. Balloons and streamers cascaded floor to ceiling over a large, full bar, manned by a pleasant-looking man with a safe-looking disposition and mustache. One wall had a largest in-home aquarium you’d ever seen. One room, had large bookshelves with black and white photos on the walls. Every room you peaked snippets of had healthy plants, clearly lovingly cared for by the owner. And those were only the rooms you could see from the main one you entered into. More rooms were blocked by people, costumed and coiffed to perfection. You felt like you had stepped into a dream, and you never wanted it to end. For a brief moment you had to remind yourself this was real, and happening to you.

One room had a fantastic grand piano, and you felt your heart being pulled towards it, but you didn’t want to lose sight of Lydia, who was heading for the bar. So, you turned, and followed her, pushing past people lightly to keep pace.

“Lydia, have you ever seen a place like this? It’s like Valhalla!”

The man at the bar smiled.

“Can you speak English please, Y/N?” Lydia laughed with you; she wasn’t as well-read as you, but there was just no other way to describe this wonderful party unfolding before your eyes.

“It’s magical. Truly majestic.”

“Now, that I’ll agree to.” Lydia smiled at the man at the bar. “Could we have two appletinis and one Roger Taylor?” She added a wink.

“If I were straight, I wouldn’t even let him near you; I’d whisk you away myself.” The man said matter-of-factly.

“Ooh, you’re definitely a catch! I’m Lydia–the soon-to-be wife of Roger Taylor.”

“Does he know yet?” the man asked, mixing your drinks.

“No, but he will.”

“I’m Jim,” he grinned at Lydia, laughing at her tenacity, and then he looked at you. “What’s your name?”

“Y/N. It’s nice to meet you, Jim.”

“You’re right about the house.” He said, “We will have to give you the full tour later, as host–well, one of the hosts–it’s my duty to make sure someone as appreciative and scrumptious as you gets the full experience.” He passed you your drinks. Normally, this kind of attention made you nervous, but from Jim, it was so well-meaning, so genuine, you found yourself thinking whoever had partnered with him could only be the luckiest man on earth.

“That’d be great!” You liked Jim instantly; he was easy to talk to, kind-eyed, and, after a sip of your drink, knew he could make a killer cocktail.

“So, divide and conquer?” Lydia asked.

You felt comfortable with Jim, and knew if you wanted to pass the entire party here, chatting with him, you’d have an enjoyable time; you nodded at Lydia, “Yeah, you go on; I’ll be fine here, and I’m sure I’ll get braver with this,” you waved your cocktail in your hand like a conductor, “I’ll get brave enough to explore and mingle.”

“Okay; be safe.” Lydia pressed her hand to yours briefly, and slinked away, a woman on a mission.

You watched her go, and before you could turn back to Jim, across the room, you saw him. John Deacon.

You locked eyes with him, and just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

What you didn’t know, was that he forgot how to breathe, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At a Queen party, you spot John Deacon, and he spots you; you make friends with Jim.

What was seeing? The act of seeing, you wondered, was commonplace for everyone. Was it normal for eyes to capture a moment in time? Like a camera. Maybe not, but you felt struck, stuck. Glued to the spot. You see things, and your mind makes sense of it. All day, all night, even while dreaming, you are seeing.

Was this a dream? Was this time travel, maybe? Seeing so purely each second ceased to pass? Your heart was beating, your body’s clock. Time must be passing if your heart was still beating.

His eyes, you thought. Were they green? Grey? You couldn’t tell; he was too far away to be sure. But, you contemplated, what was distance when time stopped functioning? Maybe it didn’t matter anymore, little matters like space and time. Maybe you’d meet someone here who could explain it to you.

Those eyes seemed to be all that mattered. In a world turned upside down, his eyes still held meaning beyond what was sensible and easily accessible.

You weren’t just seeing anymore; you were looking transcendentally with your entire body, as if your life depended on it.

Speaking of life, that’s when you remembered to breathe. You breathed with your lungs, your lips–you felt those more keenly now than ever before, perhaps. You breathed with your eyes.

He hadn’t moved yet, and he was looking at you, too!

Or maybe he wasn’t, and you were imagining it; I mean, if you couldn’t understand that you breathed with your lungs and not your eyes, you had other problems a little closer to hand than the man leaning against the greco-roman column across the room.

And he wasn’t looking at you; he was gazing at you, not lewdly not shamelessly, but with intent and a reserved bashfulness you hadn’t expected. It was like he wanted to see you, and maybe even wanted you to see him seeing you, but also for you to not notice him in the act. Men stared, like it was their right, and it was usually profane, illicit; there was usually something sneaky about it that made it dirty, and not in a sexy way, but in an embarrassing way. Deacon’s gaze, wasn’t like that at all; it was determined yet meek, considerate yet confident. He’s a puzzle, you thought. A paradox.

A paradox, that’s what was happening; time was moving, yet you didn’t feel it. Currently, time was something that happened to other people.

You heard Jim clear his throat behind you. The sudden, sharp sound broke your paralysis, and, with something akin to the pain of a farewell kiss, you tore your eyes away from John Deacon.

You smiled wistfully at Jim. He had come from behind the bar, pulled a stool up next to yours, and sat with a drink of his own. You weren’t quite sure when he had done this. But he was here, so it had happened.

Jim didn’t like to do all the work, so his gentle brown eyes waited for you to say something. He hummed softly to himself. It was as comforting as a hug on a rainy day. You knew he was waiting for you to speak, but you suddenly couldn’t string any two words together that weren’t John or Deacon. God, you were as bad as Lydia. Jim reached out and deftly took the martini glass from your hands, as if you were old friends engaging in a time-honed custom. Were you about to spill it? Wouldn’t that just be your luck? You are in the same room as John Deacon, and you spill your drink down your dress. At least they’re both green, you thought with a laugh.

Jim could see you were running out of time.

“Do you two know each other?” Jim took a sip of his Manhattan.

“No,” you sighed, “Do you, Jim?”

He smirked, “As much as anyone can, yes. Would you like me to introduce you?”

“Oh,” your heart stopped (had time again, too?) then Jim’s words sunk into your skin and your heartbeat sped up to a breaking point. Was this what a heart attack felt like? You tried to remember the warning signs. “No, that’s not necessary.”

“It might be more necessary than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, Johnny is coming your way, Y/N.” Jim’s eyes were aglow. He smiled at your deer-like panic, and reached out a large hand to steady yours.

Your hands were shaking, you hadn’t noticed.

“Take a deep breath, finish your cocktail, and get ready to be bewitched. He’s quite dazzling. He does tend to get overshadowed by the others, though. I mean, you know how Freddie can be?” Jim’s smile sang with fondness, “But, I get your attraction to this one, to the unique sparkle maybe only you can see–believe me, I more than others understand. That one,” he motioned to Deacon, “has a great duality, too–just like mine. That kind of puzzle can be…addictive.”

Jim was maybe the most perceptive person you had ever met. You were sure he had purely on sight the story of every person in this room. Any room, really.

Wait–did he mention, “Freddie?” You asked.

“Mercury.” Jim nodded, taking a swallow, coyly smiling behind his drink at you.

“Ah. Right. And we’re in his home?”

“Our home, yes.”

“Ah. Right.” You took your cocktail in hand and downed it in one go.

“And your his…?”

“Husband, yes.”

“I don’t mean this to sound rude, but, you’re so…normal!”

“Well, so is he.” Jim laughed at your incredulous expression. “Oh, dear, don’t look so surprised. He’s an actor! All the best performers are. All that flash, well, that’s not him. That’s not who he really is. He keeps that for himself, for us.”

“So, if I meet Freddie–”

“When you meet him, Y/N.”

“I won’t really be meeting him, per se?”

“A version of him, perhaps; it depends on what he sees in you.”

You nodded. Jim was so gracious, so humble spending all this time with you, a virtual nobody, when he had an entire household full of exciting people at his whim. When he had the most outrageous husband in the entire world, why on earth would he want to waste his time talking to you? You felt the old uncertainty seeping up to fog the real you from view. From the barricaded place in your mind, where you tried to hide your insecurity, you felt a sniffing, snarling at the bars. You tried to push it aside and focus.

You still couldn’t shake your out of body experience from earlier. You remembered Jim had said Deacon was approaching, and you decided to chance a look in his direction. He certainly had moved closer, but exceedingly slowly; the room was crowded, boisterous, and even though he wasn’t ever not moving, he was sauntering towards you in his own time. Like a dance to which only he knew the steps. Maybe he’d teach you his moves, you wondered. He danced to the beat of his own drum, you thought. No–that’s probably what Roger Taylor did; John Deacon danced to the beat of his own heart; you sensed no one would successfully tell him what to do, or how to do it.

You decided to really take him in; the deep-blue button-down was simple, generic even, adorned with a skinny red necktie. His jeans were bright red, and you smiled thinking of the concert photos you’d seen in the papers.

You wondered what it would be like to clutch his fluffy, orb-like hair in your hands. What would it be like waking up next to him? What it would be like to undress him? You made it to his eyes, again. And his were on yours. Maybe he had been examining you, too. Thinking thoughts best left for nighttime. It was an intimacy of clothes.

The song playing from another room changed, and so did the beat of his cantering steps. Small hops. He was playing with you now. Maybe asking you to join him with his careening hips and cocky eyebrows. Maybe the dance was just for you. Maybe it was for himself, and the simple joy of song and movement. Now, that you could understand. Music was truly everything your life had amounted to, and you were more or less fine with that being the case. Everything a person was could sing, and like a song, if you knew the notes, you could play it perfectly. It was easier for you to understand people in the language of music than on their own terms. And John Deacon, a slave to no man, was definitely a slave to the music.

“He’s quite hypnotic, isn’t he?” Jim questioned, following your gaze.

You pulled your eyes away from the funky, dancing man across the way. “He is. Where did he learn to move like that, you think?”

“Oh, all that? That’s just Johnny; you can’t learn that. That’s something you’re born with.” You both laughed; it was the laughter that can only be made by very new friends, when everything is new, not routine or expected.

“Jim?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you like to be friends? Out there in the real world?” If you didn’t risk big, you’d get nothing in return. You liked the odds here.

“This,” Jim gestured to the confetti-dusted room, the classical statues wearing neon cowboy hats, the waiters serving food on golden trays, the people dancing, chatting, confiding, “is the real world, Y/N.” He paused, sizing you up with his quick smile, and continued, “I’d cherish having another friend who enjoys observing the chaos as much as I do. How about lunch tomorrow? We can meet here, if you think you can find your way down the rabbit hole again?”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good. It’s a date. I’ll make you another cocktail.” Jim jumped from the stool, and made his way behind the bar, leaving you no time to deny his hospitality.

You felt someone take Jim’s seat. They turned on the stool and brushed your arm lightly, accidentally. A touch of ships passing in the night. It hardly counted as anything substantial, and yet it felt as euphoric as a first kiss.

You held your breath again; you wanted to prolong the moment as long as possible, the moment before you knew for sure who was sitting there.

Jim, however, not one to keep anyone in the dark, said “What’ll it be, Johnny?”

There was a hushed moan from the man sitting so closely to you, “Well, Jimmy, I’ll try what your companion here is having.”

He turned to you, your knees whispered together, already conspiring against you. You knew this was happening, but you hadn’t made eye contact with him yet. He was so close now, and you didn’t want to admit it, but your confidence was waning. What if he didn’t like you up close? What if he thought you weren’t worth his time? What if he thought you were boring? Possibly the worst attribute a person could assign to another, you thought, was being boring.

“What was it you were having, Y/N?” Jim asked you, playfully; there was a benign chaos behind his eyes. You knew he remembered what you had ordered perfectly well. 

“An appletini, Jimmy.”

John Deacon laughed next to you, and it was a saxophone, all twangy vinegar, but slutery, too. You felt like you had happened upon a private joke, and playing the joker card into it was the way to win the hand. 

Jim was laughing too, proudly maybe, at your daringness, “Okay, okay; fair play, Deacy. I won’t call you Johnny anymore tonight, if you don’t insight my new friend here to call me Jimmy. I don’t want her getting the wrong impression. Deal?”

“Deal,” Deacy smiled, taking his drink from Jim. “What are we drinking too?”

Jim passed you a cocktail.

“To new friends?” You questioned, finally looking up at Deacy.

He smiled at you; it was a smile equivalent to the thunder that follows lightning: you felt its power linger long after the light of it flashed on his face. You blushed at his cautiously forward gaze.

He noticed for the first time you were nervous, “New friends are always welcome here. It is a promising toast. Though, I do hope there’s more to it?”

You thought he was flirting but weren’t sure.

He wanted to take your hand, but knew being bold in public wasn’t his strongest suit, nor the smartest move. If you were in a more private setting, he could shine, he thought. Though you shined even now, even as unsure of yourself as you were, you shined.

Asking a woman you just met to go to a private location at a party would surely give her the wrong impression. And whereas he had admired your body, wanted it even, that wasn’t all he wanted. He craved more. If he wanted to merely get his rocks off, he could always easily accomplish that; being famous had its pressures, but it also had its pleasures and perks.

Deacon liked the chase, he liked pursuing someone, he liked winning them over, and having them do the same to him; he often was lonely, and found romantic equals in short supply. Do to this, he found reciprocity undeniably sexy. He hoped you, like himself, possessed a deep-seeded sense of separateness that left him feeling like an outsider, which drove him to seek an equal in all partnerships. He knew he was a confusing figure, that he painted a great dualism: mysterious yet knowable, kind yet vicious, vulnerable yet guarded. His mind was a whet stone, always ready for a challenge, and to be challenging.

He contemplated you: if you were a fan, you’d think you’d know him by his songs, his chords, his lyrics. It was a frequent and disappointing mistake most people made about him. However, maybe those lyrics, those notations were the sum of him? He dreaded that was all he’d ever be. That he’d only be seen as notes on a page, and music in the air. Substance facilitated through another conduit, even a conduit as brilliant as Freddie and Queen, was, perhaps, only a hollow lie. He longed to be seen as an individual, or not at all. He hoped you could see past the facade, the fame, carefully crafted to bring others near and push them back simultaneously..

He felt foolish thinking all of this about a woman he hadn’t even been formally introduced to yet, a woman he had worshiped too greedily from across a carousel-esque room, whom he had spoken only a handful of words to. For a brief second, he felt unsure himself; and, in that unease, he felt reassured that maybe you’d be a good pair after all. For who can understand insecurity better than those who are insecure themselves?

“More to what?” You inquired, lightly, your eyes had moved to the floor once more. The words were delicate, spoken as if they might break under pressure.

“Well,” Deacy paused, unexpectedly placing his calloused fingers under your chin, lifting your eyes to meet his, “To us?” It was a question, and being a question made an otherwise bold statement unclear. It was a puzzle, and you liked puzzles.

You reminded yourself a rock star was holding your face in his hands, his worth-millions-of-dollars hands.

You breathed, licked your lips into a smile, and decided to up the ante.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and John Deacon exchange hands; a certain blond drummer interrupts the whole some enchanted evening thing.

You leaned into John Deacon. His skin smelled of cardamom. Unexpectedly rich and earthy all at once. More of that tricky dichotomy. You saw the texture of his button-down, cotton and clean, and you could spot the lone speck of lint on his necktie. You could see his pores, quite small–lucky him, you thought. You saw the small spot on his neck where he nicked himself shaving that morning. You could see the natural auburn color of his hair; a hair color most women would sell their first born child to have. You kept leaning in, until you saw the saw the exact color of his eyes. You weren’t sure you could even call it exact since they were chameleon eyes. They changed, you figured, with the light. One second more blue, another more teal, always undercut with a steely grey. The color of storm clouds in autumn. His smile had become serious, curious.

The distance between you became alive; it was tangible, and you swore you could feel the air between you pressing in, pulling you towards each other against your wills. No, you knew that was a lie; you both wanted this, there was nothing about this remotely resembling against anyone’s will. You were dancing without moving. If distance were measured in dreams, you’d be perpetually anchored on the precipice of your heart’s desire. This was the verge of something new. You were ready to risk big to get big. You didn’t want to merely impress him with your boldness, you wanted to catch him off guard; you found you learned more about person doing something unexpected than what they figured you’d do. You were the element of surprise. Calling his bluff you continued to lean in.

Close to his lips, you angled you neck up slightly. A fraction of a breath from touching his flushed cheek with your lips. One turn, and his lips would be on yours. You could have kissed him. You wanted to kiss him. This was the essence of power, you thought. Being able to kiss someone you wanted to kiss, who very well probably wanted desperately to kiss you too, and then finding the self-control to prolong the moment, to stretch it out to infinity, to a place that existed beyond time. To fully live in a moment, and not give into it, that must be power.

His hand was still lightly cupping your chin, he could have tilted your head, too. Tilted it to the kissing point, the point of no return, but he didn’t do that either. You guessed this had nothing to do with desire or courage; this was deliberate for you both. A deliberate choice to wait. You could feel his breath on your cheek, and with each slow rhythm, a baseline unheard before, a part of your resolve surrendered. That was when his hand dropped from your chin to find one of your hands.

Deacon’s hand rested on yours, which rested on one of your thighs. This small gesture was quite sensational. It was as if all your nerve endings, all your mind’s prowess, your heart, and everything you were was all concentrating on the sensation of this layered and delicate touch. Breathing didn’t matter anymore, your beating heart ceased to be of concern; his hand on yours, covering your hand, innocently and deliberately touching your thigh was the only experience you cared about. Music, you thought, surely could never express this event. Words had never failed you, music had never escaped your interpretation, and yet you now found yourself up against an ineffable person performing an ineffable act all within the boundaries of a matter of seconds on inches of skin.

John was impressed. He sensed you were both playing the same winning hand. He found most stalemates were useless; someone always left disappointed, unfulfilled, unsatisfied, but this was something else entirely. The woman before him had been intimidated–starstruck, even–only seconds before, too sweetly shy to look into his eyes, but now! you were on the attack, poised to kiss, and yet frozen, waiting for him to make the first move. You were shrewd, a characteristic he liked to a fault. Holding your hand, all he could contemplate was kissing you someplace private, so the moment would be only yours, where no one but you and he would have the memory of it ever happening; a beginning belonging only to you. This romanticized notion was the only barrier keeping him from kissing you immediately in this bursting room.

He tried to distract himself with finding the perfect word for the color of your hair. Licorice maybe? He thought of his leather jacket, well-worn, dependable–maybe that was the color of your hair? Onyx, perhaps? He could be buried in your hair, and count himself a happy man, he thought. These thoughts were not helping his excitement or anticipation. You were as clear to him now as any song he had written, as any memory he had. What were memories before you?

This was foolish, he reminded himself. Did he even know your name? And that’s when you said:

“You want to kiss a woman you know

nothing about?” It wasn’t a whisper, but closer to an accusation, and it was meant only for him.

“A woman I know nothing about?” He sounded suspicious, it was the soft sound of rubbing crushed velvet; a secret promise was hidden in his question. He pulled away from your closeness, keeping his hand on yours. “A woman I know nothing about?” he questioned again, a clever smile appeared on his face, and you knew he had you.

Deacon gently turned your hand over in his, and he touched your fingertips. “Calluses,” he said simply. “This tells me you’re a musician.” He sheepishly showed you the calluses on his own hands. He then looked in your eyes, “and the fact you’re wearing glasses at a party tells me you either hate contact lenses, or aren’t vain enough to want to wear them; I think it’s the latter. You blushed when we spoke initially, which means to me I either said something you didn’t like, or something you liked a little too much. And the fact that I haven’t blushed merely due to our proximity shows me I want to, more than anything, impress you.”

This last statement shocked you, “You, a rock-star, want to impress me?”

The truth of this he couldn’t deny.

And that’s when John Deacon blushed.

You squeezed his hand in yours (how long had you been touching hands, you wondered?) and snorted at the absurdity of the situation. When he continued to gaze at you, you worried he thought you were laughing at him; he studied you so closely, as if he were trying to guess your mind.

He chuckled, without pretension, to himself, “You’re right. It sounds ridiculous out loud.”

“I can’t think of a confession you could make that would be foolish, John Deacon.” You slip your hand holding into a handshake. “My name is Y/N L/N, and I can’t think of anything less ridiculous than meeting you here tonight.”

That happened to be when a chandelier, ridiculously, fell from the ceiling six rooms away and one story up; but the circumstances of that, for now, were unknown to you, and blissfully unimportant.

Though Deacon had his suspicions he knew exactly what had occurred, he chose to ignore the hullabaloo in favor of you.

Smiling at the inherent music in your name, he repeated it. “Y/N, this cannot be the last time I see you, the last time we talk.”

“Is there a danger of that?” You asked, somewhat sadly.

“If we get separated, or pulled apart by…others.”

“I can give you my phone number?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you have anything I can write on?”

His body language was immediately crestfallen. A songwriter with no paper, no pen. Maybe, he feared, he was just a hack. 

Jim had been watching you both. His drink, held forgotten in his hand, was untouched. You were his favorite show, a story he couldn’t get enough of. He couldn’t wait to tell Freddie, perhaps the only other person in the world who wanted to see Deacy find happiness more than Jim did. Freddie would be so obnoxiously jealous knowing Jim had maybe set this all into motion.

That’s when Jim passed you a napkin and a pen.

You and John turned to look at Jim concurrently.

“Really, if you expected me to leave and give you privacy, Deacy, you aren’t as quick-witted as I tell everyone you are.” Jim was shaking his head in mock-disappointment.

Deacy laughed, and you found yourself craving his laugh the more you heard it. It was a crackling fire, a waspish wind. You took the napkin and wrote your number on it. For good measure, you added your name, and “the girl who leaned in” just to cover your bases. You handed it to Deacy.

He studied your handwriting, all loops and hard-pressed upon the paper as if you were afraid the ink would vanish before he could read it. He put the napkin in his jeans pocket, and lifted his glass to you.

“I have an amendment to your toast, if that’s acceptable?”

“Impress me, Deacy.”

He blushed at the use of his nickname. It had never sounded so alive as when you said it; it was an endearment, he thought, in your voice from your lips. Lips he had been so close to touching. A keen ache shot through his chest, then. A longing he didn’t entirely understand yet.

“To the girl who leaned in.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Jim reached his glass out to Deacy’s so fast you couldn’t tell who was more invested in the proceedings, you or him.

You lifted your glass, too, laughing with Jim and the rock-star.

Your glasses clinked like an unspoken contract beyond “let’s drink” or “to your health.” It was a contract of kismet. 

Jim’s attention shifted, and suddenly he made an exasperated sound, and the look on his face switched from enjoyment to well-humored annoyance. You followed the direction of his gaze, beyond Deacy’s shoulder.

“Oh my god!” You whispered, lifting a hand to your mouth. And that’s when a blond God came into the room and your life forever.

His black blazer had lapels spangled in rainbow sequence, and his colored sunglasses couldn’t hide the blue of his eyes. He was almost too gorgeous to be legal. He was danger personified. He rushed over to Deacy, and as he crossed the room, everyone in an expanding wave, from a ground zero starting at the one and only Roger Taylor, people lost track of their conversations, their dance steps halted mid-move. Momentarily, all action paused. It was as if he spread exceptionally temporary acute amnesia with him wherever he went. He was bewildering. In view, as he passed, all was forgotten, and then seconds later all returned to business as usual. People took up their conversions, dances resumed. Though it was as if some forgotten knowledge was omnipresent now: Roger was in this room, Roger could be won in this room.

You had never seen someone so aggressive without being angry in your life. Was this passion, perhaps? You could see what Lydia saw in him. Deacy, still looking at you, perhaps read some of this on your face, for lines creased between his eyebrows that told you he was resigned to this, used to this, expected this even–he thought you wanted Roger now. Who wouldn’t? You, more than Deacy knew yet, appreciated how hard it was having a best friend who was, through no fault of their own, naturally stunning. You chose this moment to wink at Deacy.

He winked back, and the insecurity slipped away just as fast as it had appeared.

“Let me guess…” he sighed.

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll hold you in suspense for long.” Jim rolled his eyes, sipping his drink.

“DEACY, mate–” Roger benevolently put a hand on Deacy’s shoulder and stood between the two of you. “Listen, if you had been there,” he shifted his lingering eyes to you, “instead of chatting up this lovely bird,” then back to Deacy, “I SWEAR, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“I highly doubt that.” Deacy ran a hand through his hair, which springed about in sympathy.

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about yet.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“I just couldn’t help myself.” Roger was on his way to drunk city, population most of the people at this party. “In fact,” He slurred, his gazing shifting back to you, “I might not be able to help myself to not help myself to you.”

Deacy stood, and put a protective arm around his friend, “Rog, firstly, if you’re referring to the chandelier we heard, the only thing I could have done to alter its trajectory would be considered manslaughter in several countries. Secondly, that’s exactly what I’ll do to you if you don’t keep your grease-gun away from Y/N, here.”

You couldn’t decide if it was a threat or a joke or a bit of both. You also couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. It was the grin of early holiday presents. The grin of winning something you didn’t even know you wanted but did. The grin of waking up on the first day of summer vacation. You looked at Jim and the look on his face told you all you needed to know: he was doing everything in his power to not laugh.

“Will you ever drop the car bit?” Roger was trying hard to sound angry, though you suspected he not only loved the teasing, but would dearly miss it if it ever actually vanished from their friendship.

“Will you ever drop the car bit?” Deacy questioned.

As seriously as he could manage, Roger asked his cohort, “Well, who is she, then? Your…friend?”

“Rog, this is Y/N L/N. Y/N, this is Roger Taylor. Famous drummer, dear friend, and infamous car-adulterer.”

You and Roger shook hands, “I heard your name somewhere tonight, I’m sure of it.”

“I think you know my friend, Lydia?” You tried to prod his memory. Deacy looked at you, swallowing up every scrap of personal information you dropped.

Roger’s whole body changed at the mention of Lydia’s name. It was the feeling of heat returning to the body after a walk in the dead of winter. It was the feeling of a song you never skip. He glowed. Which was saying something as he was the type of person, you thought, who was never strictly turned off for anyone.

“You mean to tell me you came here with the Goddess in Red?”

“The scary yet fascinating thing here is that he could still be talking about his car.” Jim pondered aloud.

“She’s playing hard to get, the little minx.” Roger looked genuinely upset.

You laughed, “Yes, that’s Lydia without question. Actually, I haven’t seen her since we arrived.”

“That’s by design, I’m afraid; we’re playing a game.” Roger’s smile was a pinwheel. Let’s play, it said. “Wanna join us, love?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A child’s game is played, though several people win at games not everyone knew were being played.

You weren’t sure exactly what Roger Taylor was offering, and you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to turn him down; if it weren’t for the enigmatic, dancing God standing next to the blond God, you might have a hard time resisting the glamorous Roger. Your heart was already spoken for, even if you hadn’t realized it yet.  
Roger put an arm around Deacy’s waist. He had to admit, Deacy had delectable taste in women. The kind of women that tended to go after his friend, however, weren’t always the kind of woman Deacy was looking for. He wasn’t strictly a one woman a night kinda guy; that wasn’t to say Deacy didn’t like to have his fun or indulge his base desires, rather that he was a bit more choosy than most about the women he invited along for the ride. Roger respected this the most about his friend. And even though he’d never admit it, he admired him even more for his discerning palate and all-encompassing self-control.

They could get whatever they wanted when they wanted it, Roger thought. Perhaps the most chaotic thing about Deacy was his ability to simultaneously flaunt that fact and yet outright deny it; turning away from limitless lechery and immediacy was perhaps the ultimate form of Deacy’s rebellious chaotic energy. He could allure anyone and say no in the same breath. Roger, however, rarely said no, considered seduction his favorite hobby–besides his cars and his drums. He was maybe a cad, but he never took advantage; Roger Taylor always knew where to draw the line, and if that line was the curve of a woman’s body, even better.

He hoped you were capable of dealing with Deacy’s complexities, because from the look in his friend’s eyes, Roger could tell Deacy was falling in such a way he was probably already writing songs about you in his head. He hated the idea of seeing his friend get hurt again. Roger was all fire and every emotion was always plastered on his fine face; if you could read a book, you could interpret his face and his feelings; Deacy felt everything startlingly deeply, and even though he trusted the members of Queen above all, there were times he’d rather run away for weeks than tell them what was wrong. Could you be the exception?

“That depends,” you said, “What kind of game are you playing?” A wry smile had appeared on your face. You were feeling the alcohol a bit more, and felt braver because of it. You looked at Deacy, and had a hard time not thinking about what it would feel like to kiss him in this room full of witnesses. To claim him publicly would be the most fantastic move, you thought. Not to mention a huge turn on for you. You tried to put it in the back of your mind next to your thoughts of pressing him up against a wall and running your hands all the way down his torso.

There was a faraway look in your eyes Deacy couldn’t help but find intriguing and exquisite. That, he thought, was the perfect word to describe you: exquisite.

“I have an idea what you’re playing.” Deacy said, “You and Freddie really can’t help yourselves, and you’ve enlisted Y/N’s friend, and now you’re trying to enlist us to be party to your…foreplay adventure.”

“I would never say ‘foreplay adventure.’” Roger simpered. He licked his lips, and looked at you, “Listen: we’re simple men who play scrabble for fun for fuck’s sake. And what we’re doing now is equally childish, yet a rockin’ blast of a time.”

“Oh yes! Sardines is without qualification a ‘rockin’ blast of a time.’” Jim laughed sardonically.

“Wait–you’re playing reverse hide-and-seek?” You asked somewhat gleefully.

“What of it, love?” Roger asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Let me get this straight–”

Jim snorted into his cocktail, and the boys smiled at him fondly.

“Let me get this straight,” you repeated shaking your head a Jim, a full-on smile on your face, “You’re adult rock-stars playing sardines?”

“Come now, this is a time-old romantic tradition dating back to the Victorian Era.” Roger explained, rather scholarly, you thought.

“God save the Queens.” Deacy said automatically.

“God save the Queens,” Jim responded. You had the distinct feeling Jim was talking about one Queen in particular, and that this call and response was a typical exchange of the group you had become part of.

Deacy removed himself from Rog’s grip, and offered you his hand. You took it, allowing him to help you up. Standing next to him for the first time, you noticed how tall he was, and were instantly relieved you had the foresight to wear heels tonight. You’d still have to stand on your tiptoes to kiss him properly, you guessed.

“Look at it this way,” Deacy pulled you closer to him, staring into your eyes the entire time, “games of proximity are significantly better as adults.”

You smiled at each other knowingly, as if you had been exchanging hidden messages since childhood. It was clear to you now, maybe for the first time tonight, Deacy wanted to get you alone, to experience you by himself, a room all your own. Perhaps, this was the ultimate test for any two people, to survive the tedious one-on-one for the first time. To bypass all the pitfalls and emerge for the better and wanting to know each other better wasn’t always easy or simple. You knew, however, you wanted nothing more than to find out if you were compatible in every sense of the word.

“You’d have to find me, first.” You challenged.

“I could find you in a room full of darkness, you gleam that brightly for me.”

Dumbstruck, you felt that newly familiar sensation of time pausing again. It was such a line, you thought, but there was something about the genuine way he said it, the slight shyness, the undercurrent of embarrassment that showed you he felt flabbergasted saying it, too. Maybe it was audacity of the audience, or the fact you had known each other for hardly an hour, barely knew anything about each other, but whatever it was, it wasn’t just a line for him, because you knew the last thing he wanted was to show bad judgment. Statements, lines like that can seem like a game, something a player would say to get his way, or show the emotional hand of someone who rushes into relationships too quickly. The way he said it, the mixed emotions, however, conveyed what the words couldn’t: he was saying this against his better judgement precisely because he couldn’t help himself. Another paradox, you thought.

“Another paradox,” you whispered.

For Deacy, you had said the magic word. He knew you understood him better in these brief minutes than most had his entire life. 

Roger cleared his throat, “Mates, you’re supposed to be helping me find Lydia. Keep your baseline in your pants.”

“You’re one to talk, Rog.” Jim came around the bar, determined to help in the search. “Pretty sure you’re up for action any day, action any night.”

Roger glared at Jim.

“Right,” Deacy said. “Let’s do this.” You nodded in agreement, and let go of Deacy’s hand.

“Alright, you all know the rules? We all split up and search for Lydia, and when we find her, hide with her until the last one of us comes a long and is declared the loser. Now, keep in mind Bri and Freddie are already playing. I lost track of them, oh, I don’t know, thirty minutes ago? They could be anywhere.”

“I like a challenge.” You said, clapping your hands together.

“Did Freddie start playing before or after the chandelier?” Jim asked Roger.

“…Well, during.” Roger confessed hesitantly.

Jim closed his eyes in gentle frustration, “Thanks for the hint,” he said, and quickly zipped off among the throng of people, deciphering something in Roger’s words only one’s lover could understand.

You lost track of him rather fast, and amused yourself imagining Jim sneaking off into a secret passage like film noir detective.

Deacy wanted to just whisk you away, use this game as an opportunity to get you alone, but he was also competitive and liked to win. He was torn. Part of this game was deception and distraction and knowing your prey. He was contemplating the best tactic when he noticed you had left his side slyly and without sound or word. Surprised, he smiled at your initiative. He took it as a personal challenge, endearing him to your spirit even more than before.

“Hey, hold this for me, mate?” Rog said, handing Deacy a balloon he had fumbled down from over the bar.  
“Right,” Deacy said holding the string.

That’s when Roger popped the balloon, and made sweet his own ostentatious getaway.

Deacy stood at the bar, quite alone in a room full of people, still holding the string to the popped balloon, “Right.” He repeated.

You were in the room you had most wanted to enter since you arrived at the party. A glorious white grand piano rested in the center of the room. Vast, rich red curtains hung from the bay windows circling the exterior. A spiral staircase was off in the corner of the room, almost hidden, certainly meant to be ignored. What was it like to live in a place where something as inherently fancy as a spiral staircase was commonplace?

The ceiling looked like a renaissance painting, though you were certain some of the angelic figures were, indeed, of cats and not cherubs. You smiled at the adorable yet bizarre tribute to the fine feline kind. Only Freddie, you thought. Unless this was Jim’s dramatic touch? You thought better of it; only a rock-star would do this to their ceiling. You wondered what it would be like to compose rock songs at this piano, in this space, in this townhouse. Down the rabbit hole, indeed, you echoed Jim’s words from earlier. Especially in this room, they rang true. You couldn’t bring yourself to touch the piano without permission, though you longed to sit and play, perhaps to entertain, maybe to show off.

Instead, you checked behind the curtains for Lydia. She wasn’t there, though. You decided to not go back the way you came, but to use the inexplicably curving, tight staircase that led up towards the cat-painted ceiling, and off along towards an indoor balcony. You weren’t sure exactly yet where it led, but couldn’t resist the urge to find out. You ascended the staircase and followed the balcony along into another room. You found yourself on the second floor over a modest library. If a two-story library could be called modest, that is. Large ferns took advantage of the floor to ceiling windows resting between the shelves. You wondered who the gardener was who took painstakingly good care of them.

You wandered between the nooks and crannies, between large and small plants, in dark crevices, and patterned curtains made of kimonos. There was another staircase leading up (how many floors did this place have?) and a doorway leading to a widow’s walk, and beyond that only darkness. Shadowy figures were outside the widow’s walk. Maybe one was Lydia and the others?

Opening the door, you ran into someone leaving.

“Oh, pardon me, will you?” He asked, lightly. He was distracted, maybe on a mission of his own?

You looked up at him, and saw a mop of curly long hair. You recognized, with and in-take of breath, Brian May.

“Oh, wow!” you whispered. “I mean, of course–excuse me, I was just looking for my friend; we’re playing a game.” You explained. You couldn’t believe you were talking to Brian May, about a stupid game, when he was in all actuality quite brilliant.

A look of recognition sprang to life on his ultimately kindly face. The smile made Brain absolutely beautiful. It had to be said, he had better hair than anyone you had ever met, including Lydia. Those luscious brown curls, you wondered, how did he keep them so tame? You must remember to ask for tips. Hair tips from Brian May, you really were losing it.

You took in his red and black Henley and silver blazer. He looked classical, relaxed, you thought. And so very tall. Taller than Deacy. You thought then of Deacy and where he was, if he had won yet, and thought of finding him in a dark corner, and what you would do to him if you did. The possibilities were endless.

“You must be Y/N!” Brian said grinning.

His words shook you from your reverie. This rock-star, who played guitar better than any living person in the world, knew your name.

“I am,” you managed to say. You put your hand out for him to shake. Brian took it happily, and he introduced himself. “I think we’re playing the same game, if I’m not mistaken?”

“We are,” he agreed a little bemusedly.

“We must part ways, then,” you said somewhat sadly; Brian seemed, well there was no other word for it, sweet. Maybe genuine was a better way to put it, you thought? You smiled at him and said, “I hope we have the opportunity to learn more about each other outside the cunning nature of sardines.”

Brain laughed at your remark. He liked a woman with a brain. Being a scientist himself, he valued the simple skills of observation and logic. Also, however, being an artist, he admired beauty. Women were like stars for him, each had their own beauty, their own signature, a little something that made them all different and appealing in a myriad of ways. Gazing at stars, for Brain, was like gazing a women: equal parts dangerous and beguiling. A woman could sear your eyes, tarnish your skin, yet envelope you entirely in light and warmth. This, is the essence of pleasure, Brain thought. And, like every other woman, you were very pleasing.

“I’m sure we will have the chance.” Brain smiled as he left back the way you had come through the library. You, however, continued past the widow’s walk to a doorway at the end of a medieval-looking hallway. You opened the door and walked inside. A guest bedroom in pinks and oranges met your gaze. Light mewing and tired sighs could be heard from the canopied bed. You tiptoed past the bed, not wanting to disturb the cats–seven in all, you counted? A second doorway led to another hallway with six different doors leading all of six different ways.

Dear lord, you thought. Did this place ever end? You wished Brain hadn’t left you alone. You were a stranger in a strange land. Before you could worry too much, one of the doors started opening, and you wished for a place to hide. You had five options, and couldn’t choose one. You found yourself frozen to the spot, a little too curious about who could be coming through the doorway.

Deacy opened the door and saw, much to his surprise and elation, you.

“Y/N?” He said into the darkness.

“Deacy!” You practically sprang into his arms with relief. It felt as if you had already done it a hundred times before. You felt Deacy’s body seize briefly and then instantly relax. He slowly snaked his arms around your waist and up your back. He was very cliche of warmth and you felt duly undeniably safe. He was a shield in the night.

Deacy couldn’t resist any longer. He had been fighting a silent battle all night. The one against his mind and his heart. That old battle, more a foe than a friend; for we are always our own worst enemies, are we not, he thought? And, really, when you got down to it, he was no different than anyone else. Sure, he was famous and wealthy, but some problems you couldn’t charm away, you couldn’t buy off. Some problems all men had to face.

This fight always ended one of two ways: the heart would win or the mind. He could stop himself, maybe, he thought, if he turned tail and retreated now. If he left you here in this dark hallway, he could continue to guard himself, to lock himself away. Seal away vulnerability once and for all, and give up. Or, alternatively, he could let go. He could succumb to every thought, to every wish he had silently expressed since he noticed you entering the party with Lydia.

That’s when Deacy let go.

He moved his hands down your arms to take your hands in his, and he turned to the left, knowingly, and led you into another room you had yet to see.

It was, you thought, a pantry of some kind. Close-quartered, but not too cramped. In here, in the darkness alone, you would have been afraid. But with Deacy it was an adventure, a beginning. Deacy turned around and snapped the door closed by pushing you up against it. He didn’t ask to kiss you, which you liked. You hated it when people asked to kiss you. It was, you thought, their own insecure way of not really knowing if they wanted to kiss you in the first place. If you have to ask to kiss someone, one of you doesn’t want it, and your intuition is giving you a red flag.

Deacy ran his hungry fingers up your waist, past your breasts, up your neck, pulling you into an exigent kiss. His lips pressed against yours with skill and determination. You responded immediately by wrapping your arms around his waist, one reaching up his back into his coiled hair. Softer to the touch than you had expected. Even the texture of his hair excited you; you had it bad. You smiled as the kiss lengthened, parting your lips.

His lips caressed yours, parting in equal measure and excitement. There was a rhythm to his kissing, you thought. Longer ones followed by softer and shorter ones, passion on top of passion, building to breath and repeats of long crescendos. Every peak would push a bit further than before, before de-escalating to a plateau. Each break made you desperately cling to him and him to you. You kept bringing back each kiss, each feel of the hands, each everything was new, nothing done before, each movement a furthering symphony of ecstasy.

Deacy deftly slid his tongue into your mouth, tracing your tongue. He pulls back, ever so briefly, lightly nibbling your bottom lip, and you moan in response. There is music in it notes know not.

That’s when Deacy decides he could happily make you moan forever and be perfectly, permanently in a state of joy. “Moan again, for me?” He asks, punctuating each word with a kiss or a touch, “I’ll make it worth your while…” He’s curious what other sounds you could make together; he wants to find every sound you make and catalog them into a score, a song that can mean only you, that only you can make together.

You manage a sigh, looking into his grey eyes, you pull him into your kiss. Your hands pull him by the waistband of his jeans, fingers digging into the coarse fabric; it is a dirty gesture done every so innocently. You slink your tongue into his mouth this time, moaning all the while. As you lose track of time, you lose track of which hands are yours and which are his, as if you already belonged to each other. He lassos his arms around you, into your hair, holding your face. Your tongues circle each other in a delighted syncopation. You follow and flow with each other’s lips. You feel him getting harder with each kiss, and wonder how on earth he’s containing himself in those tight jeans of his.

He pulls away, moaning. Bodies still up against each other, he knows he wants more. But he also always wants to wait, to savor these moments and delay sex as long as possible; that was, after all, part of the fun for him. But, before he stopped altogether, he had one more parting shot, one final move to impress upon you how much he desired you.

Deacy, placing a hand on your face, and another cradling one of your breasts, leaned down, and licked up from your decolletage, up your neck, all the way to the tip of your chin. He felt you shiver in his grasp.

Gasping, you felt every pore, every slice of skin his tongue touched ablaze with a keen desire. You wanted him, all of him, right there. Instantly, you knew without a doubt you needed him past this moment, past this night, past every night, maybe. It was a ridiculous notion, you had just met, but this ultimate need, this yearning was the most powerful feeling you had ever come across. And you never wanted it to end.

“I am not sure,” you said, “how you expect me to go back out there as wet as I am for you right now.”

The flashing in his eyes was a need you had never seen on another person.

He wasn’t sure if what you said was sexier than what you had done thus far, or even what he figured you would and could do for each other. He almost let go again, almost giving in to your skilled seduction.

“Y/N, if we relent now, if we give into each other now, we will regret it.”

“I could never regret that.”

He smiled lightly, “it will be all the better for waiting,” he kissed you again, flicking his wrist to your hips, and traveling down your inner thighs.

“This,” you moan, as he dexterously searched, pressing his fingers to your clitoris, “doesn’t feel like waiting to me…”

“But it is; I promise,” he said, returning your moan, as you trailed a hand across his mostly perfectly erect penis. There it was again, an intimacy that knows clothes. You’ve never been so entirely turned on while having all your clothes on. Was this the beginnings of true intimacy? Of great compatibility? You weren’t sure yet, and for the first time during all this reasoned he was right: you should bide your time.

You gently removed your hands from him, pulling him towards you still with your kiss. He followed suit, and took his hands off your body. Attached at the lips, this was still the hottest moment of your sexually experienced life. Almost as if rehearsed, you ended your kiss at the same exact time.

You saw him in a different light now. A layer of uncertainty melted away; there were different ways to know people, you figured. After this event, you saw him with more transparency, more confidence. He was a song you were learning, and couldn’t stop humming. You wanted to pour over his score until you had it committed to memory. You wanted to know him note-perfect.

You stared at each other silently. You weren’t sure how long, all notions of sardines forgotten in this cupboard.

That was until someone else joined you with a bang, and a push, new hands on your shoulders, and a closing of a door.

“Deacy, darling, is that you?” The man said; his voice was crisp and undeniably alive. You looked to your left, and saw more than felt that he still had a comforting hand on your shoulder. He was wearing a cape, a crown, white hot-pants, and not much else. You’d recognize that mustache anywhere.

“Fuck me,” you said softly to Freddie Mercury.

Freddie looked you up and down, taking in your green dress, bright eyes, and chic hair. He liked your over-large glasses. There was something sly in your eyes he savored. Freddie flicked his eyes onto Deacy, who made a halfhearted attempt to hide his erection; no fool, Freddie knew what had been going on in here even without that particular hint. He raised a thick eyebrow at Deacy. That eyebrow said everything in one fluid movement.

Deacy knew Freddie would 1) never let him live this down, 2) demand later to know everything that had happened in here while simultaneously regaling him of other sexual encounters that had occurred in this pantry, 3) pry every detail about Y/N out of him, and 4) cheer you on relentlessly. Eyebrows could communicate a lot. At least, Deacy thought, if it had to be anyone who discovered this situation, it was Freddie.

Their connection was deeper than his to the others; Freddie, like him, was shy in his private life. He was deeply secretive, and cherished the times when he could be “normal” as much as the times he was on stage performing for thousands of people. They understood each other instinctively, which made them not only good friends but good collaborators. They were able to write songs together with ease and enjoyment. On stage, Freddie was the only one who made him feel free to dance and embrace the music without an ounce of shame. At times, he even looked forward to the times Freddie would wander over and grind up against him, dancing in their own unique ways to the music they created together. That, Deacy thought, was complete freedom. Freddie, on stage, a magician, the great pretender, brought out the best in everyone, including the band. Freddie was, if nothing else, also surprisingly discreet. Deacy knew he wouldn’t even have to ask for Freddie’s discretion; he’d just have it, like he’d always have Freddie’s friendship.

“Well, to be honest, Deacy dear,” Freddie simpered, “I expected to find Roger and his belle de jour in here, not you and this delicious beauty.”

“Rog is quite fond of cupboards,” Deacy grinned mischievously.

“A queen if i ever saw one,” Freddie sighed.

“Are you referring to Roger or Y/N here?” Deacy questioned straightening his button-down.

“Myself, of course!” Freddie chuckled extending his hand to you.  
“Y/N L/N,” you said smiling from ear to ear, shaking his hand.

“Freddie Mercury, an absolute pleasure to finally meet you, darling. I’ve heard so much about you, if it isn’t gauche to say so?”

What was tonight, you thought? How many rock-stars knew your name? How many were vying for your attention? And, well, that’s not not mention everything that had transpired in this cupboard with one John Deacon.

“Not at all! As long as what you’ve heard has been favorable–if not, i may have to do something unspeakably devious about it.”

“My husband has a very high opinion of you, actually.”

“Oh! Jim! I just am so taken with him. We’re getting lunch tomorrow.” You excitedly exclaim.

“Indeed! I find myself jealous. How about you, Deacy. Jealous of my dear husband and your…friend?”

“Jealous,” Deacy said with a wry smile, “Doesn’t even begin to touch my feelings, Fred.”

“Freddie?” you asked, remembering the game, one of many, you thought.

“Hmm?”

“Have you seen the others?”

“Oh! Well, to be honest, I was hiding from Jim because of the chandelier incident. Though, that man is the canniest; I’d suspect he and Brain would have found Lydia by now. Technically, I think we aren’t allowed to search for her together…” He sounded like a parent now, catching two children breaking an obvious rule.

You were loath to split away from Deacy again. This, Deacy could read on your face. He took your hand, placing something in it, and said, “Y/N, we will find each other again tonight, I promise.”

He left the pantry, determined to win more than just your heart.

You opened the palm of your hand to find a long string in it.

“What’s that?” Freddie asked.

“A distraction,” you said, looking at the closed door, with an impressed smirk.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You share a closet with a famous Queen.

You were in the closet with Freddie Mercury, holding a string. Could this night get any more bizarre? You immediately chastised yourself for jinxing it. You had the distinct feeling anything could happen in Freddie and Jim’s home. This had more to do with Freddie, you guessed, but you couldn’t deny the magic of this night and this place.

Freddie was as fascinated by the string as one of his cats might have been. To him it was more than a trinket from the party downstairs. He knew Deacy was sentimental to a fault, and somehow this balloon string meant something to him beyond its basic utility. But what? How best to find out?

Freddie looked from the string to you, deciding best how to phrase his words. His raw charisma was unmatched by anyone you had ever seen. Every gesture, every touch was laced with elegance, every word, every glance was intentional. Some might say he was affected and fraudulent even, but that wasn’t it, that didn’t touch it; he was stylized, particular, and commanding. There was absolutely nothing fake about Freddie Mercury.

“Y/N, dear?”

“Yes, Freddie?” Your voice sounded far away.

“Did something happen to you and Deacy with that string?” His eyebrows jumped scandalously.

You were sure he was implying something akin to being tied up. Admittedly, you felt a little tongue-tied, though that had nothing to do with this string. Going over the events of the past half hour, you felt somewhat surprised at yourself and unsure if you could trust your memory. It felt like those moments in the cupboard with John Deacon had happened to someone else, someone more interesting, someone more beautiful. Maybe this string was all the proof you needed to remind yourself of what had transpired. You kissed and kissed and kissed a man over and over and over. It had happened. And it wasn’t just any man, but John Deacon, bassist of Queen. And here you were standing next to Freddie Mercury talking about a string Deacy had given you only moments before. The absurdity of this made you burst into hysterical trills of laughter. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the natural high from making out with someone you couldn’t take your eyes off of, someone you couldn’t stop thinking about, maybe it was the larger than life presence of Freddie Mercury. You weren’t sure.

Freddie laughed with you, “Are you trying to tell me he did tie you up?”

“No, not at all!”

“And you’re disappointed he didn’t?” Freddie winked at you. “Really, men just need a little encouragement then they’re ready to play the game, darling.”

“I usually don’t do this.” You slumped against the wall. Deep in thought, you slid to the ground.

“What? Talk with queers in closets? Quick! Should we oust ourselves?”

You knew he was trying to make you laugh; he was performing for you. “I don’t typically carry on with men, or with rock-stars, and I definitely don’t just make out with them at the drop of a hat.”

“Really? I used to do it all the time!” Freddie joined you on the floor with a flourish.

“Which–men or rock-stars?” You asked cheekily.

“Both! I recommend it highly. All you beautiful people should be making out all the time, if you ask me.”

“You must mean everyone but me,” You adjusted your glasses, frowning slightly. Freddie studied you closely, looking confused. You shook your head, “I’m not. I mean, I know the ‘everyone is pretty in their own way kinda line.’ I’ve always been the smart one, or the ‘oh at least she has nice eyes’ one; the one with the good personality; I’m not the pretty one, trust me.”

Freddie rumbled, sighing deeply. He knew about insecurity. A stranger in a strange land, surrounded by adoring fans who expected him to act a certain way continually. It was tiring to always be someone else, to never have anyone to share your true self with. Ever since he could remember he had been teased about his overbite, his ethnicity, his flamboyance, his identity, his sexuality; what often gets overlooked is how adversity often makes the weak strong, and the enemy petty and to be pitied. Well, here he was, in white hot-pants, a full-length red cape, lined in regal white fur, and an honest to god crown; he wasn’t about to let anyone tell him who he had to be, or what he was, or that who he was wasn’t acceptable. Life means absolutely nothing until you can be who you are out loud. Hiding wasn’t ever anything he was interested in or good at.

“Y/N?”

“Yes, Freddie?” You were both sitting on the floor of the pantry, just two old friends sharing confidences.

“You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

“What? Contemplating the course of my entire life?”

“You’re feeling sorry for yourself. And, dear, what really irritates me about it is you’re feeling sorry for yourself for having a good time. You’re beating yourself up because you don’t believe you deserve what happened in here, whatever that may have been.”

You wanted to fight him, you wanted to protest. But you couldn’t because you knew he was right. You weren’t a child; you were an adult, and old enough to know the difference between rationality and self-delusion. You weren’t being fair to yourself. Why were you deliberately trying to ruin what had happened between you and Deacy? What use was it to self-sabotage the moments you had shared? It was that beast in the back of your mind, the one that made you feel less than, the one that said you’re not good enough; it was awake in your mind, ready to pounce over every good thing that had happened tonight. Yet, here was this relative stranger, this rock-star front-man, this talented musician, sitting here telling you to knock it the fuck off. He didn’t need to do it; all Freddie saw was a person in need, and without even thinking of the consequences, here he was, beating away the darkness in your mind. He was too good to be true. And you couldn’t deny the accuracy of his words.

Since your teen years, however, you were suddenly in a world where everyone was compared to everyone else. Where standards were unreachable, unrealistic, and designed to separate people from each other instead of bringing them together. Instead of believing in yourself, in your own inherent worth, you belittle yourself, and destroyed your own happiness. What you and Deacy did happened to you and because you wanted it and he wanted you. You deserved it. Now if only you could really believe it.

Freddie took your hand in his, “Listen,” he said, “I don’t do that anymore. I used to, but not anymore. I don’t feel sorry for myself. And now that we’re friends, you don’t either. I don’t intend to let you. Deacy’s girlfriend won’t be down on herself unless she truly has reason for it.”

Looking into his brown eyes, you couldn’t help falling a little love with him. No one had ever put it that clearly to you before in such terms of finality. Feeling sorry for yourself for drama you create in your own head was pointless. Here we are again, our own worst enemies.

You didn’t know how to express your gratitude for his words, so instead, you said, “I’m not Deacy’s girlfriend.”

“Not yet.” His smile was conspiratorial. There was a glint in his eyes that made you feel like he always knew a secret, always had a hidden truth in his pocket. “Now, do I have to bitch at you more, or are we on the same page?”

“Same page, definitely. Though, if you wanted to bitch at me more, I’d let you.” You both laughed, and he patted your hand affectionately before letting go of it.

“Believe me, I’ve already done enough bitching tonight. I’m going to need to be contrite the rest of the evening, I wager.”

“Would that have to do with the chandelier?” You ventured a guess worth guessing.

“Jim is going to be disappointed. I do hate letting him down.” His frown was extravagant.

“Like you let the chandelier down?”

Freddie’s eyes flashed mischievously at you, “Well, I was caught up in the moment! and it really was the flashiest distraction I could think of…” This was pure drama; he tilted his head up, and swung an imaginary sword in the air like Errol Flynn.

“You dropped a chandelier from the ceiling to win at sardines?”

Freddie straightened out the creases in his cape, “Well, it does seem a bit foolish now, doesn’t it?”

“A bit?”

“Well only a bit, darling, considering there’s no way we can possibly win now.”

“I didn’t know you were all so competitive.”

“Oh, honey, we fight over EVERYTHING. Lyrics, politics, pizza toppings, tempo, fashion, where to eat for breakfast, legal words in scrabble, what order tracks should be on our albums, whether Godfather Part II is superior to the first one, and on and on. Really, it’s our favorite hobby, arguing with each other. You’d think the music, but no. You know, it’s purely by habit at this point we haven’t gone our separate ways.”

“That and you all clearly love each other, and love what you create together.”

Freddie’s eyes softened considerably, “Well, yes, that too. I’m surprised they put up with me. Honestly, I’m a basket-case, relentless; I never give in, and I don’t care what anyone thinks about me.”

“I admire that; I wish I had that.”

“Oh, you will someday.” He delicately waved a hand at you, “Either someone will push you hard enough and you’ll erupt out of that shell you’ve crafted for yourself, or you’ll get tired of always putting yourself second.”

“Deacy’s very mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” He was shaking his head, “He’s easy. He’s a walking contradiction in monochromatic outfits.”

“You think that’s easy?” You asked half-impressed half-disbelieving.

“After the people I’ve dated, yes.” He could tell you weren’t convinced. “Look at it like this: you’re famous, and it is like walking on a tightrope 24/7 darling, and maybe you’re in one of those spangly bodysuits hoping some small umbrella will keep you from falling flat on your arse.” He laughed, but his eyes were serious and dark. “Then! Suddenly, you fall.” He clapped his hands together loudly, making you jump. “And you don’t fall onto some sensuous mattress, your lover waiting for you; no, you tumble into a crowd of people. The people who are always wanting a piece of you, needing to know what you’re wearing tonight, who you’re fucking, who you want to fuck, what you’re next project is, if you really were out with Elton last night? Is it true what such and such tabloid printed about you last week?” He was speaking faster and faster and you knew the truth of his words ran deep into his heart. “Was it true what your ex said about you on that program? Were you seen doing cocaine at whatever club? Are the rumors true about trouble in the band? 

“And it’s endless questions and lies, and it never stops. Not until they have every piece of you on display. Nothing is yours anymore; it’s theirs. How do you be yourself in that kind of ruthless swarm, darling? What would you do? What do you hide away? What do you keep for yourself? How do you keep yourself alive? What do you lie about to protect yourself, to protect those you love? How does it work? Being in the public eye and being private? You start to develop this second-skin literally, a persona that takes care of you. Though, this protection makes it harder to be yourself when the time calls for it. Maybe you aren’t even sure who you are anymore? Or even what that means.

“We all cope in whatever way we can; Deacy and I cope the same exact way. Yes, he’s not as outlandish as I am, but that is what is expected of me. He’s the bassist, they’re supposed to be elusive, quiet, enigmatic, sharp; and yes, he is those things in the public eye, but in private, well, you’ve seen him; he’s got his own brand of outlandish, outrageous swagger, charm, and daring. Still sharp as a tack and as deadly as an asp. Out there, he’s the musician they expect, the silent partner who writes the most heartfelt songs for me to sing, but he’s more than that. We all are. Well, maybe except Roger.”

You laughed together.

“It’s easy to pick on, Rog. He’s the strongest of us all though. Him and Brian. Strong as the sun, those dazzling men.”

“I had never thought about fame in those terms before, Freddie.” You were overwhelmed with what these men went through just to be successful artists. As someone following, hopefully, down the same path, you wondered if you were up to the challenge. “I’m sorry it is so consuming.”

Freddie grinned, “They haven’t discovered the person capable of consuming me yet, dear. We like it, Y/N. We must or we wouldn’t do it. We’d retire and do something else. Something,” he shuddered, “normal. It’s not the kind of men we are, to shy away from what we want.”

“Does that include women?”

“Deacy won’t let you go without a fight. Nothing will get in his way of possessing you, of belonging to you.”

“We’ve only just met; it’s ridiculous.”

“There it is again, that negative voice. Just enjoy the ride and take it at your own speed. Just because it appears he’s settled with you doesn’t mean he’ll pluck up the courage to tell you that for months. He’s romantic, yes, but not insane. He’d just die of embarrassment if he scared you away.”

“So would I, I mean, if I did something to scare him away.”

Freddie shrugged like a 1940’s starlet, “You won’t. You also aren’t stupid; he’d never be interested in you if you were; he’s a man of taste. Too bad he’s not queer.” He sighed regretfully.

“I’d fight you for him, Mr. Mercury!”

“And you’d probably win. I’m a bit too nelly to fight you on my own.” He mimed boxing you.

“How long before they send out a search party?”

“Could be days!” He gasped, “Why don’t we rejoin what’s left of the game?”

Freddie stood, then offered his hand to help you up. “Before we part ways, can I let you in on a little secret?”

You nodded.

“I know where Lydia is hiding already.” Freddie whispered.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone takes a rest together; confessions are made; Roger returns.

Deacy was in a compromising position. At least he wasn’t alone, which made it all the more scandalous. This was, he thought, the only time in recent history he had been party to this kind of situation. The second Freddie saw them, he knew, the first thing out of his mouth would be something about “Not being invited to the orgy, darlings.” He grinned at the notion. Freddie always knew how to break the tension running through his life. Their friendship was irreplaceable.

Deacy had to hand it to Lydia, though; this was an inventive hiding place. It had the sand of one of his favorite stories, “The Purloined Letter” by Edgar Allan Poe.

It is the story of a detective, who makes a bet about being able to find a piece of evidence the rest of the police force have been unable to locate. The evidence, a letter, should have been easy enough to find, but the police only thought of places they themselves would have hidden the elusive letter, instead of trying to think like the person who had hidden it; it was a small detail, but an important one; a good detective becomes his prey. And therein lies the rub; our detective was able to empathize, put himself in the shoes of the perpetrator, and therefore he was able to locate the letter. The perpetrator ended up hiding the letter out in the open, on a shelf with other papers, where anyone could have found it. You see, Deacy thought, often the best places to hide were in plain sight.

This was something Poe understood, and Lydia certainly was clever enough to use it as her main tactic here. Deacy keenly felt this idea. He was famous, world-known, a household name. There was nothing more lonely in the world than being known, he thought. As far as hiding in public went, he was a professional. Hiding in public had become almost a game for him. He’d challenge himself by seeing how long he could go being unrecognized in the open air of a restaurant, a park, the theatre. It was entertaining, you see, because he desperately wanted to blend in, while also getting some kind of recognition for his chameleon-esque ability. He knew it was contradictory, but this kind of singular game carried with it a personal thrill unlike any other. Well, almost unlike any other.

He wondered where you were, then. Laying there, his thoughts drifted quite naturally to you, as if he had already spent years building you up in his mind. The smell of your hair, some flower? Bluebells, he questioned? Intoxicating either way. The scent of your skin, something sweet. Vanilla? No–sweeter. Sugar cookies, he pondered? He wasn’t sure if that was flattering or not, but it absolutely deepened his cravings for you. You were every dessert he wanted to taste from now on. His desire was unquestionable in his mind. A great reckoning had occurred. Kissing you had been like the sensation of finding a long lost treasured object, like steam from a doused fire, he was a dark theatre and you were the spotlight; he saw clearly now what he wanted. It had been no time at all, but he knew he had to have the opportunity to get to know you better. He had to see if you felt the same, if you wanted to see if something was here between you two beyond that cupboard. That cupboard, oh, that cupboard. He couldn’t stop mulling over it. He didn’t want to stop himself from reliving it over and over again.

Deacy hadn’t felt like this about anyone in a long time. He had had successful relationships, or what he thought had been successful. They always ended in tears and someone leaving for the better. He wondered if anyone would ever stay, if perhaps he was unlovable, too damaged to adore. Too distant to be loving. Too famous to be known. He shifted his arm slightly.

“Oof,” Brian said next to him. “Watch that elbow.”

“Sorry, Bri; my arm is asleep.” Deacy pulled his arm from under Brian’s back, and turned. He was between Brian and Jim.

“Deacy,” Jim said, next to him, “I had no idea you were so well…proportioned.” They were facing each other, and one of Jim’s legs was pressed, accidentally of course, up against Deacy’s crotch.

“You’ve never seen Deacy naked before, have you?” Brain asked Jim with a waggled of his eyebrows. “Well, nothing so spectacular as our very own John Richard Deacon has been created in all of the cosmos.”

“Well, no, I haven’t had the privilege of seeing him in his natural splendor; I’ve never been interested in or privy to the dressing room amalgamations of you straight men. Keep your rituals, honey. And I’ll keep mine. Though, if I had known what you were…packing, I might have made an exception to my rule. I’m terribly disappointed in Freddie for never mentioning it.” He was mock-inconsolable.

“I’m not,” Deacy said with a robust chortle.

“Boys!” Lydia hissed, next to Brian, “You do know the purpose of the game is to not be found? With all this noise, they’ll find us for sure.”

“They haven’t yet.” Brian observed, trying shield Lydia from his halo of hair. “Sorry,” he whispered, “I can’t help it.” He motioned to his hair as best he could without invading her personal space. Though, it was particularly difficult not to seek an invitation into her personal space. She was exceptionally easy on the eyes.

Lydia didn’t seem to mind, though. His hair was god-like, like her own. She, perhaps, unsurprisingly had taken to these men like a duck to water. Being starstruck was for other people. She, more or less, took to all men in such a fashion; she could win anyone over with her dazzling charm, and all men tended to take to her. She couldn’t wait to introduce you to John Deacon. He seemed preoccupied by something, or perhaps he wasn’t as naturally loquacious as Brian and Jim were. When she thought of herself in bed with three men, she never imagined it would be these men, under these circumstances. But, here she was.

“Jim?”

“Yes, Lydia?”

“Whose bed is this?” Lydia asked.

“Mine and Freddie’s, actually.”

“It’s fantastic. Freddie has such good taste.”

“I’d hope so; he did pick me.” Jim preened.

“And me,” added Brian.

“Really? He picked me, too.” Deacy simpered.

“Blessed, all of us, really.” Brian beamed.

“Entirely,” Deacy sorted.

You heard muffled laughter coming from the room Freddie had led you to. You weren’t in the least bit surprised to find Lydia’s hiding place had been a bed. Obvious for some, but if done right, obstructive and misleading. Manipulative, in the best way. You opened the door quickly, yet silently. At first glance, there in the dark, you saw a larger than necessary bed. The coverings looked lush but wrong somehow. Like the bed hadn’t be made, or was made up in such a way as to “seem” natural. It was just a little too designed, a little too fussed-over. This had been Lydia’s doing, no doubt, in an attempt to make the bed look made and empty when it was, in fact, party to four people, soon to be six.

“I believe Lydia is on that side.” Freddie said, “And that lump looks suspiciously like my husband. Time to face the music, angel.” He winked at you, and you both entered the room, and made for your respective sides of the bed.

“Lydia!?” You yanked the blanket from over the lot of them.

“Sardines!” They all whispered at you and Freddie.

Your heart leaped into your throat when you saw Deacy in the bed. You didn’t think you’d be in a position to be in a bed with him already, this soon into whatever it was the two of you were. He smiled up at you, looking deeply in your eyes as if he could see the future in them. Maybe he could. You had eyes only for him, and paused, unable to move.

The blanket was useless in your hands. You let it go. It fell back over the bed and your friends. Lydia could see your dilemma and your distraction. She knew you better than anyone. Something was up, she thought. But what? 

“Get your arse in this bed, now!” Lydia said to you. “We’ve got to hide from Roger; can’t make it easy for him.”

“You? Easy? Never!” You snickered at your best friend.

“Ha ha ha, very funny.”

You maneuvered into the bed as best you could. It was a tight fit, and you were happy you were on the edge of the bed. You weren’t sure you’d be able to handle being pressed up so closely to Deacy again in such a short amount of time. You heart couldn’t take the overwhelming ecstasy of his touch, his eyes, his gaze, his breath.

Deacy was frustrated in himself for not offering to take the edge of the bed just so he could be close to you again. His yearning was paramount in his mind. The memory of your scent wasn’t enough; he needed another dose.

“Jim, can you forgive me?” Freddie pleaded extravagantly snuggling up to Jim.

“Don’t you dare do it, Jim.” Lydia said with a stern laugh.

“Oh, shush you,” Freddie said with a wink in his voice and a smile in his heart. “Really, darling, I couldn’t help myself. It was Rog.”

“I seriously doubt it was Rog, my love.”

“You know how he likes beating things, and that temper of his. He just snapped!”

“Snapped?” Jim asked skeptically, “Let’s throw this one to Lydia, shall we? What news do we have today from the lies and misinformation department, Lydia?”

“Well, Jim, tonight the forecast is surging with one falsehood after another. We’ll have a storm-front of deception coming in next. Back to you, Jim.”

Everyone was laughing. It was the laughter of families sharing a meal, of friends reuniting after a spell a part. It felt like home.

“The truth?” Freddie adjusted the covers over everyone like a magician.

“The truth,” Jim nodded.

“It was me,” Freddie admitted.

“Yes, I know.” Jim said.

“Are you terribly mad at me?”

Jim sighed. This kind of thing was just routine when you lived with and loved Freddie Mercury. He just couldn’t help himself. It was one of things Jim loved most about Freddie. Everything was always at level 10, even a whisper was dramatic; everything mattered so deeply to him. His emotions and desires were operatic. Every word, every event took a great toll on his heart. He could write a symphony to a cold, and ode to tying your shoes. Every moment was inspiration to him, and being around someone who viewed life like that was transcendent. And being loved by him, well, it was beyond all comparisons, beyond all metaphors. Loving Freddie Mercury was like blinking to Jim; he did it without even thinking about it. It was like falling asleep; you never remembered falling asleep, the act of falling asleep is a mystery, but you always remembered waking up. Loving Freddie was like that, he didn’t remember when it happened, but one day he woke up and found he was irrevocably in love with him.

Jim never stayed mad at Freddie for long. Freddie had such a way with people and situations, he was impossible to abhor, impossible to blame. And as for staying mad at him, well he just didn’t have it in him. Jim turned to face Freddie with some difficulty; he heard a soft groan from Deacy.

“No, Freddie; I’m not mad.”

“I made sure none of your plants were harmed.” Freddie put a hand to Jim’s face, tracing his mustache.

Freddie had said the magic words, and he knew it. Jim smirked at his husband, and kissed him briefly, but deeply.

“Has everyone made up?” Brian asked the room at large.

“No, Bri. I’m still angry at your for not noticing my new cardigan last week.” Deacy said matter-of-factually.

“Deacy, can you ever forgive me? I’ll serve you my heart on a platter, if it’ll fix this rift between us.” Brian May put his hand on his chest, and then held his hand up in the air. It was a dignified gesture.

Deacy reached out in good time, and took Brian’s hand in his.

“Your hands are freezing, Deacy!” Brian bellowed.

“Put them in your hair, that’ll warm them right up.” Deacy reasoned.

“I have another place you could put them.” You said.

The entire room went dead silent.

You sat up, clasping a hand over your mouth. You couldn’t believe it; it had just come out of your mouth without thinking. You couldn’t take it back. You weren’t sure if you wanted to.

You felt Lydia freeze next to you in awe.

Jim and Freddie, nose to nose, grinned at each other like proud parents.

Roger was unsure what he had just walked in on, but felt compelled to see it through. He took a sip of his cocktail, standing silently and unnoticed in the doorway.

Brain felt Deacy’s grip on his hand tighten like a vise, and he knew something momentous, something earth-shattering had transpired between the two of you tonight.

Deacy felt the rhythm of his heart sputter before increasing twofold. He was in double time now. He blushed a deeper shade vermilion than the blankets of the bed. At least no one could see him blush in here. He let go of Brian’s hand.

Deacy sat up in bed, looking your way.

In the darkness, eyes well adjusted to the room, you stared at each other. Deacy saw the look of panic mingled with pride on your face, and wondered how best to put you at ease. Absentmindedly, he traced his lips with his fingers thinking deeply. Then, he held a hand out to you. His long, skilled fingers reaching out as a helping hand. He tilted his head, a silent question. Don’t be afraid; join me? It said.

You took your hand from your mouth, and gingerly placed it in Deacy’s hand.

“SCANDALOUS!” Rog howled from the doorway.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody play the game…

Roger was a bucket of cold, glass-shattering water, splashing over the company before him. He heard what you had said, and he had no desire to interrupt whatever Deacy’s reaction would be. This tender display, however, had been anathema to him. He felt like he had walked in on something desperately intimate. He had the urge to look away, even. So, instead, he did the next best thing in his book, which was to make light of the situation. Everyone, rather than looking at you and Deacy, turned their attentions onto him, the Blond God. Besides liking the attention, he knew Deacy wouldn’t have wanted all eyes on this stolen moment. Annoying, maybe, but Roger was undeniably shrewd and possessed a high emotional intelligence reserved, typically, by those of the female persuasion; it was Roger’s firm belief this innate skill of emotional intelligence was the secret to cracking the female code, and was precisely why he was so effortlessly adept and knowledgeable with any and every woman he came across.

Leaning against the door frame like the coolest person in the room, Roger threw his arms into the air, spilling part of his cocktail on the floor. “The party has arrived! Fashionably late, but always ready to play. I’m guessing I lost the game?”

You and Deacy had let go hands, but were still lost in each other’s eyes.

Lydia snaked between you and Brain out of the bed and into Roger’s arms. He slid his empty hand up her back, taking in the scent of her straw-colored hair. “You’re intoxicating, love.”

“Better than being intoxicated,” Lydia said, raising an eyebrow at Roger.

“Oh, this is nothing,” Brian said sliding out of the bed himself. “You should have seen him at the New Orleans party…”

“You should have seen all of us at the New Orleans party.” Deacy said to the room at large, his eyes still on you.

“Oh?” You questioned, curious where this was going.

“If you ladies had been there, maybe we’d have someone who could tell us what happened.” Brian said straightening his jacket and brushing errant hairs from it.

“You were all at a party of which none of you recall?” You asked somewhat impressed, though not sure you should be.

“Oh, you know, it was a holiday, and one thing led to another.” Deacy explained embarrassingly, slithering over to you on the bed.

“One drink led to another, more like.” Roger smirked.

“And another and another,” Brian said, turning on the lights.

The room was the largest bedroom you had ever seen. Half of your apartment could fit in it, you thought. The bed was the centerpiece. An ornate black headboard accented the lust red bed. A dramatic mirror, encircled with lights, like actors usually had backstage, you thought, rested across from the bed. The vanity had an elegant claw-foot bench in front of it. A walk-in closet and master bathroom wasn’t far from this, but obscured from view by a gauzy curtain. A seating area, with a chaise lounge, sofa, arm chairs, and sleek glass coffee table took up a corner of the room. Stills from black and white movies adorned the walls. A pair of french doors led to a balcony. Plants hung from the walls in large canopied holders. Hoyas, you thought? They certainly enjoyed the dramatic skylight that took up half the ceiling. Dark wooden floors and a Japanese-inspired dressing screen rounded out the room. It was modern and an antique throwback all at once; it was Freddie, you thought: forward-looking with one glance over the shoulder looking back just to make sure, if nothing else, that nothing was out of place.

“I seem to remember costumes; though, who was wearing what is beyond me, darling.” Freddie stood, and offered a manicured hand to Jim. Jim took it, savoring the touch. He wanted to reach out and touch a bit more, being in their bedroom, it was somewhat difficult to remind himself not to. Jim settled for sending Freddie a knowing look that said, quite clearly, “I am having you later tonight, and there is simply nothing you can do about it, Mr. Mercury.”

Freddie responded to this look by licking his lips at Jim, and smacking his ass loudly, noticeably, and without a care in the world.

This seemed fairly par for the course for the men in the room; none of them batted an eye; in fact, Brian, Roger, and Deacy all had fond smiles on their faces regarding this display.

Brian carefully chose one of the armchairs, sat down, and looked up through the skylight at the stars above.

Roger was leading Lydia over to the sofa, he put his arm around her. The silky satin of her dress draped over Roger’s legs. He kept pawing at it, trying to see if she was ticklish; she wasn’t giving him an inch though.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that, Rog.” She whispered in his ear, breathing in his blond hair.

Freddie led Jim to the chaise lounge, where they sat comfortably.

You and Deacy sat on the end of the bed together. This was another compromising position. You didn’t want Brian to feel like a third wheel, well, a seventh wheel. However, you didn’t want to move from Deacy’s side, or give him the wrong impression. The wrong impression here would be that you didn’t want him–that you weren’t interested in him. Would moving away from him now and going to one of the armchairs give this impression? How could you communicate your need for Deacy and your need to be gracious of Brian’s sensibilities and situation?

You pursed your lips and slowly smiled at Deacy. It was a calculated smile. It said, I’m not done with you, I may never be done with you.

Deacy knew you were trying to communicate something. He wished then that you and he had been together as long as Jim and Freddie; they could say whole novels to each other in flicks of their wrists, and the rhythms of their breath, with looks, with eyes, and sighs. Deacy took a centering breath and took your hand in his again; he had decided to lay his cards on the table, to slide the curtain of paradox aside ever so briefly so you could glimpse the truth.

“Y/N,” he said softly.

“Speak up for the rest of the class, will you, mate?” Roger shouted from the sofa.

Jim glared at Roger with the wrath of hellfire behind his usually kind brown eyes.

Freddie reached for a decorative pillow and tossed it at Roger’s head; he had surprisingly accurate aim.

“Very butch of you, love.” Jim remarked.

“Y/N,” Deacy repeated, ignoring the chaos.

“Yes, Deacy?” You whispered, curious and concerned all at once.

“I want to know everything about you. As important as your most sacred goal, as intimate as your most crippling fear, as inconsequential as your second favorite ice cream topping. Just simply everything.” He paused. You were breathing as one, studying each other intently. He licked his lips and continued conspiratorially, “So whatever is going through you head right now, know I’m not going to spread my wings and leave in only seven days, as if I’ve grown disinterested. I am interested. You are interesting. Arresting to me. You have my attention, complete, undivided.”

No one had ever made such a declaration to you before. You weren’t quite sure what to say. No one had ever been quite so upfront with you before, and it was refreshing and new and an enormous relief. You didn’t have to guess what Deacy wanted, in this respect anyway. What he wanted was you. You found yourself unable to distinguish one passing second from another. This was a moment you could happily be lost in forever. Other people were in the room, but they didn’t exist for you now. Was this real? Too good to be true? This man had swagger, charm, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sincere. You searched his face for a con, for a signal he was playing you like a game of scrabble. 

“It’s been a full minute.” Jim was delicately checking Freddie’s wristwatch, “If she doesn’t say something soon should we send in reinforcements?” Jim whispered to Freddie, sending a look Lydia’s way.

You decided to pinch your arm with your other hand. You then pinched Deacy’s arm next.

“Ow,” He said, raising a questioning eyebrow at you.

“Just checking,” you said smiling faintly.

“I assure you, he’s quite real.” Brain said, sending you a smile.

“Yeah, a real bore.” Roger yawned, slinking a hand up Lydia’s leg playfully.

Jim made to stand up, and Freddie yanked hard on his arm to return him to the chaise.

“Reciprocity,” you said, finally.

“What’s wrong boys?” Roger said grinning from ear to ear like a jackal, “It’s all in good fun!”

“You’re such a tosser, Rog.” Brian said shaking his head at his oldest friend. Everyone was laughing, even Deacy.

Deacy pulsed a rhythm with his hand that was holding yours. He turned his attention back to you, and said, “Is that your only request?”

“It is for now.” You admitted simply.

“I will offer you reciprocity always. In everything.”

“In everything?”

“Everything.”

“Well, at least I have the opportunities to toss, Bri.” Roger patted his crotch, challenging his friends.

After one more longing glance at Deacy, returned to you by another quick pulsing rhythm from his hand, you stood and threw yourself into one of the fancy wingback armchairs. Deacy followed suit, dancing over to the other remaining chair.

You recalled Freddie telling you how competitive everyone in the band was. You sensed the temperatures turning towards some never-ending grudge match. Sure, it was something all families did, you reassured yourself; for them, you figured, this kind of sparing was on par with any other game they might play while on tour?

“Cheesecloth,” Brian said, answering the challenge.

“Excuse me?” Roger said with a condescending laugh, “that supposed to be a threat? Do try to impress our guests, Mr. Astrophysicist.”

“Actually, I concur with Brian; cheesecloth, you are Rog.” Deacy winked at Roger. It was, you thought, the only threatening wink you had ever seen. You had no idea how Deacy could turn a cheeky, seductive gesture into a sinister, aggressive expression, but he could. You were, without question, and without sense, suddenly turned on by this ability of his.

“In what sense of the word, Johnny?”

“Well, Mr. Grease-gun,” Deacy countered skillfully, “correct me if I’m wrong, Bri–”

“Oh, no need there; you’re never wrong,” It was simultaneously a compliment and a deadly jab to the ribs, as if Brain were playing chess and setting up the next attack.

Deacy chuckled to himself lightly, “It’s apt, if you really thought about it.”

“Though Rog barely thinks through anything,” Freddie added.

“Facts, all facts, gentlemen.” Jim responded.

“All in good fun?” You questioned Roger.

Roger winked at you. Completely different from Deacy’s. That wink told you all you needed to know. This was a game, purely a good time. Though a game built around venting feelings that were perhaps too hard to say not in jest. This was their therapy disguised as a game, you thought. Very clever. These four men were brilliant, and entirely different from each other yet compatible. More paradoxes, you sighed.

“Masochists, the lot of you!” Lydia shrieked in mock-disgust. She ineffectually tried to push Rog away with one hand, while pulling him closer with her other.

“Cheesecloth?” Roger said, impatiently. “Give me your best shot, boys.”

“You’re always wet and any true, enduring knowledge tends to slip right through your notice.” Deacy reasoned. “That fit the bill, Bri?”

The silence was broken by a resounding, joyous laugh. And Roger was the one laughing. It clanged around the room like one of his gongs. Tears were tracing down his cheeks. His honest laughter made you and everyone else in the room laugh, too. His laugh was infectious.

You and Deacy briefly locked eyes while laughing, and it was transcendent bliss. Absolute joy.

“That’s terrible!” Roger said, between laughs, clutching his gut for affect.

“What, your feelings hurt on round one?” Brian asked disappointingly.

“I think he’s referring to your punchline, Deacy dear.” Freddie said.

“Not quite the stinging barb I was expecting.” Roger wiped the tears from his piercing blue eyes, “Though with such a weak start…”

“It doesn’t matter how you start, but how you finish.” Lydia said, smiling suggestively at Roger. She was snaking a hand down his chest, now. All the way down.

Roger coughed, and placed his hand on top on hers, which had made its way to his inner thigh. She was toying with him. Teasing him, in her own patient way. Her hand was close enough to his penis to cause Roger excitement related to nothing more than anticipation, yet far enough away to appear demure and shy. So close, yet so far away, Roger thought. 

You immediately thought of earlier in the evening when you and Deacy had first held hands at the bar. It seemed ages ago to you, like it had happened to another person in another lifetime. Your own laying on of hands and been innocent by comparison, yet that had been a game too.

Roger leaned into Lydia, and gave her a garish kiss. He was showing off his prowess and enjoying himself immensely. There was something about kissing Lydia in a room full of his friends that excited him greatly. A bright exhibitionist streak ran through his life, and at every turn he was curious how he could subtly, or not so subtly, bring it to light.

“Lydia,” Roger pulled away from her calculatingly. “I never,” Roger turned and suddenly winked at Deacy, “misfire.”

Everyone, besides Roger and Lydia, exclaimed at Roger’s perfect punchline.

“Checkmate that one,” Jim said, shaking his head at Deacy, laughing good-naturedly with everyone else.

“Check my mate? If you insist!” Deacy said, twinkling at you. He did a little dance in his chair with his hands and shoulders. It shouldn’t have been sexy, but you were a sucker, and he had you hook, line, and sinker.

Meanwhile, Roger was returning his lips to Lydia’s, “Goddess in Red…” He said, biting her lip between words. He paused, pressing his lips to her ear, and moaned deeply, lewdly. Something in that moan said he wasn’t yet done playing the game; he had one more parting shot. “You ready?” He said in Lydia’s ear.

Lydia, the siren, pulled away from Roger, and said, loudly, “I’m always ready. Are you ready for a ride, Daddy?”

Her wink was a whip crack.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Jim exchange memories.

Freddie Mercury had hosted a plethora of parties, been invited to even more, and attended even more to which he hadn’t been invited. He had, therefore, seen everything under the sun, sheets, and sombreros.

Or, that’s what he had thought before tonight, before Lydia’s coup de grace statement. He was impressed with Lydia’s balls. There was just no other way to put it. She had moxie.

To say the room was suspended in a stunned silence, and not for the first time tonight, wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been to circle-jerks with less activity, he thought. He and Jim were sitting identically; hands cupping their chins, elbows on knees. Though they could not be dressed more dissimilarly, yet there was something united about them regardless, or maybe even in spite of this. A subtext ran through them, an equality and synergy most found envious.

Freddie, still in his white hot-pants, cape, and crown, felt his elbow slip from his knee on to Jim’s immediately following Lydia’s statement. As his elbow came to a rest on Jim’s leg, he absorbed the texture of Jim’s trousers. They were his favorite pair of Jim’s pants, navy with a tuxedo stripe in Kelly green; only the best for his Irish beau, he thought. He had bought them for Jim after their ninth date. These pants, Freddie recalled, represented a watershed moment in their relationship that came to define their entire partnership.

By their ninth date, Freddie had only seen Jim in one pair of pants: white, fancy, if not a little dated. As he was the kind of man who noticed fashion, Freddie had been curious why Jim kept wearing the same pair of pants on their dates. Maybe they were his lucky trousers, he speculated? Something unexpected occurred during their ninth date, however, that brought this to a head. While animatedly telling a story about John Deacon leaving for Bali during a recording session, Freddie accidentally spilled his mostly full pint of lager all over Jim’s white pants.

Immediately, Freddie sprang to action trying to siphon the amber-colored liquid from Jim’s crotch with napkin after napkin. All the while saying how sorry he was, what a clumsy oaf he was, and how he wasn’t usually this nervous around people, but Jim brought out something in him he wasn’t accustomed to: i.e. diligent interest, the unexpected need to impress, and the budding growth of falling in love; doing verbal back-flip after back-flip, Freddie, at first, failed to notice the look of overwhelming hopelessness on Jim’s face.

What Freddie hadn’t known at the time of the spill was Jim not only had substantially less money than Freddie–not that that was hard to do–but also that those pants, quite literally, were Jim’s livelihood. Those old-fashioned white suiting pants were Jim’s work pants, his uniform. They were his only pair of work pants. He couldn’t afford more than one pair. They were his only pair of nice pants, as well. In Jim’s mind, they were the only stitch of clothing in his entire wardrobe worthy of the great Freddie Mercury. This was why, nine dates in, Jim only had worn this one pair of pants. He’d come home from waiting on people, launder his trousers, press them, wear them later same day for his date with Freddie, return home, and launder and press them again for work the next day.

This lager stain wasn’t just any blemish; it was pungent and had an odd red hue to it, making Jim immediately believe he’d never get the stain completely erased from the pants. He could be out of a job for this, which would mean he wouldn’t make rent, which would mean he could be homeless. Facts of life for Jim, usual, casual worries for him. Though not for Freddie Mercury. All of these anxieties could come to pass all over a date with Freddie, a man, whom he was beginning to take a deep and meaningful shine to. He could tell Freddie the truth right here and now about his feelings and his pants, or he could lie. Come up with some story on the spot about why he was disproportionately upset over a stain on a pair of trousers.

As with most interactions in their relationship, that’s when Freddie forgot about himself, and in a serendipitous and timely moment, decided to look at Jim. That’s when Freddie noticed Jim’s expression, which he instantly tried to hide from Freddie by turning away from him.

Freddie reached out and turned Jim’s face to meet his.

“Something has happened here beyond just a spill hasn’t it?”

Jim sighed, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes, Freddie.”

“Have I said something to offend you?”

“No,” Jim said, honestly.

Freddie took Jim’s hands in his own, “Have I done something,” he asked with great courage, “To change your feelings about me, for me?” There were tears in his large brown eyes, threatening to cascade down his anxiously attentive face.

Jim had tears in his eyes, too; before answering Freddie, they brimmed over his elegantly long lashes and fell down his cheeks. His voice stuck in his throat, he shook his head, managing to croak out a solemn “No, Freddie.”

“I couldn’t live with myself, darling” Freddie whispered, “I would surely die if you dismissed me from your love.” Tears traced down his contoured face.

Jim clasped Freddie’s hands tightly, and said, “I love you, Freddie Mercury.” It was the first time he had said it.

Freddie, accustomed to qualifications, to the other shoe dropping, waited for Jim to add “however,” or “but” to his statement.

None came.

No adjustment, no limitation, no stipulation came attached to Jim’s declaration. I love you Freddie Mercury. Full stop. It was, perhaps, the first time Freddie had heard the music in his own name, spoken through the instrument of absolute love, compassion, and partnership.

Freddie, gazing into Jim’s bright eyes, knew at that very moment he wanted to spend the rest of his life with Jim. And that he would do anything, give anything to make this happen.

“I love you, Jim Hutton.” No amendments, no reductions, no qualifications.

Jim leaned in and kissed Freddie fully, completely, without hesitation. This kiss was a new beginning, the first kiss after the first statement of worth in both their lives.

Freddie gently placed his hands on the sides of Jim’s head. He felt Jim’s tears, and gingerly wiped them away. “Tell me what’s wrong, my love?” Freddie pleaded.

Finding his breath, Jim delicately explained the situation to Freddie.

Freddie Mercury wasn’t often at a loss for words, but what Jim told him struck him to his core. He felt inconsiderate, privileged, and horrible self-disgust. He had gotten to a point in his life where he no longer needed to think about money. Somewhere along the way, this had made him careless, tactless, and negligent. To make the person he cared about most in the world feel needlessly handicapped in his presence made him feel sick with self-loathing. The guilt began eating him up inside.

“I should have asked you sooner.” Freddie said, feeling the stinging threat of tears welling in his eyes once more.

“No–I should have said something sooner.” Jim said reassuringly.

“Can you forgive me?”

Jim smiled slowly, wiping Freddie’s tears away with his flannel handkerchief, “Already forgiven, yes.”

The next day, Freddie sent a package to Jim’s apartment.

In it was two pairs of pants. One white, and one navy with Kelly green accents. The note, which Jim carried in his wallet with him still, written in Freddie’s only sprawling hand, said, “One for work, one for play, always for you, I’ll never stray.”

Once a week, from then on, a package arrived for Jim.

It was always two pairs of pants. One white, and one with a little flair, a little drama, a little style.

When Jim moved in, Freddie had to build him a special closet for all the pants; it was worth it, though. Jim was worth it.

Freddie was absentmindedly tracing the green seam in Jim’s pants, lost in his own memories of love.

Jim took Freddie’s hand in his, and turned to look at his husband. Freddie turned to meet his gaze. The melancholy tint to Freddie’s eyes told Jim all he needed to know in that moment; Jim knew Freddie had been thinking about the pants, about their ninth date. After that everything had changed. Jim brought Freddie’s hand to his lips and kissed it. He could still take Jim’s breath away, even now, after all these years.

What Jim recalled most about that night had been witnessing Freddie cry for the first time. He had been vulnerable, deeply personal, and infinitely brave. It was immediately endearing and remarkably enticing. Jim was amazed at Freddie’s capacity for being entirely selfless, even in and especially when he was at fault for overlooking something, ignoring signs, and being in denial about signals. As an artist, Freddie sometimes, quite naturally existed on a different plane of existence. Jim didn’t always have access to this area in Freddie’s life, and they both worked together to bridge that complication. This ninth date event had been the first time, Jim thought, Freddie had actually realized Jim was a normal man with normal cares and concerns. Instead of blowing up in his face when met with the fact he had been in the wrong, Freddie hadn’t become defensive, like so many men before in Jim’s life. No, Freddie had done the most un-rock-star-like of things; he had taken responsibility for his own actions. It was the single most attractive thing anyone had ever done for Jim.

The next day, when the package had arrived, Jim had sobbed uncontrollably on the floor his kitchen. Opening the package, delivered by a smart-looking boy from some fashion atelier Jim had never heard of, he found inside two pairs of pants, and the note. The note, meant so much more than the pants ever could. Slumping to the yellow tiled floor, his back to the refrigerator, Jim started crying. And he couldn’t stop myself, maybe didn’t want to stop himself. It was a turning point in his life; the first time a partner had ever taken care of him, without having to be asked, without making Jim feel ashamed, and without expecting anything in return. Jim cried for every time he had settled for a partner who treated him poorly, who implied he wasn’t good enough, smart enough, who said he wasn’t valuable or worthwhile, who wanted to hide him, who was embarrassed by him, his sexuality, or his preferences. Then he cried for Freddie, whom he loved, who cared so deeply for him, who not only said it but showed it.

Jim would let Freddie continue to show him how much he loved him for the rest of his life, he thought. He brushed himself off, stood up, and walked over to his phone. He twisted the numbers into the rotary, and hoped Freddie would be home.

“Hello, darlings, this is Freddie?”

“Freddie?” Jim questioned, his voice hoarse from crying.

“Jim? Is that you? Are you okay?” Freddie’s voice sounded concerned, alert.

“I received your package, and your note.”

“Oh, Jim! Do you love the pants, darling? Stylish, no? Classic, yet they have a little something extra, don’t you think? I picked them out myself.” He was excited, rambling. Jim could listen to him talk for hours and never want to miss a syllable.

“I adore them,” Jim said quietly.

“Jim, are you okay? You sound… have you been crying?”

“I have, yes.” Jim brushed fresh tears from his eyes.

“Do you want me to come over?”

Jim could hear Freddie standing up on the other end of the line; he was going to rush over here without hanging up the receiver; he had done it before, and it wouldn’t be the last time.

“Freddie, I have to go to work soon. I wanted to call to tell you I adore your gift, and your note…” his voice drifted off; he was too overcome to speak, too emotional to process his feelings into words.

“The note. You liked it?”

Jim nodded, then remembered Freddie couldn’t see him. “Yes, I…it meant…I don’t know how to say how much it meant to me.”

He could hear Freddie breathing fast across the time and space facilitated by the phone.

“Well, the feeling is mutual; I don’t quite know how to say how much you mean to me.” Freddie said. “Maybe I’ll have to put it in a song, just how much you take my breath away.”

“I love you, Freddie Mercury.”

“I love you, Jim Hutton.”

Jim hung up the phone and he decided then and there to never look back.

He still had Freddie’s hand at his lips. Freddie was staring at him, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. Soft lights glinted off his crown. Jim, wearing his favorite green flannel, smiled at the incongruity of their looks. From this dissonance came the first moment of harmony in their relationship. A moment, that could just as easily have never happened if Freddie hadn’t spilled his drink. The random chance in it all scared Jim. He put it from his mind, holding his husband’s hand in his.

Staring at his husband, he hoped maybe tonight for John and you some similar clandestine moment had occurred between you two. He wasn’t so sure yet one had. Though, looking at Roger Taylor and Lydia, he knew for sure, purely by the looks in their eyes, the moment they were now sharing transcended every other moment in their lives.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger can’t make up his mind; Brian notices what’s missing from his life; Freddie and Jim attempt to push you and a certain bassist closer together.

Roger Taylor had met his match. He was certain; he was in denial. Well, this kind of thing, a permanent attachment, wasn’t in the stars for him. He was certain of that. He was also in denial about it. His honed hands pulled Lydia on to his lap. Her slippery red dress flowed over his legs, obscuring them from view. His vigorous fingers traced up Lydia’s thighs. He was drawing on her in the same way he was drawing his own conclusions about his own life. Which was to say, more or less randomly. He had yet to meet anyone capable, he thought, of reining him in. He had never really had reason to not partake of as many ladies as there were names for them.

No perfect Goddess in Red was going to change his mind on this. Sure, she was witty, gorgeous, sensuous, she was bloody well perfection walking in the night. He felt like she was always one step ahead of him and instead of being irritated by that quality–like he was with a certain John Deacon–he found it consumingly desirable. He wanted to be challenged by someone. Maybe Lydia was just the person to swing into his life and alter it forever? Maybe he should just leave well enough alone and be alone forever, doing whatever he pleased with whomever he pleased to do it with? She was something else entirely, though. A game changer.

He was certain. He was in denial.

Lydia was daring, uncouth. She was aware of it, knew people either hated her or envied her for it. He adored this about her. Her ability to just not care. He, perhaps, cared a bit too much. Roger had a temper. That was the negative way of putting it, and, in fact, when people said he had a temper, or tried talking to him about his temper, if often put him in a sour mood and caused him to have a temper. Rather, he liked to think of himself as passionate. He’d throw televisions as often as he threw words; they were one and the same for him; they were a means to an end. And Lydia was a very beautiful means to an end.

There was something about her though. Something usually tantalizing. Some forgotten whisper that said to him she was the kind of woman to keep beyond tonight, beyond one night. A keeper. No, best not to go there, he thought to himself. Denial was useful. Or was it? He was in denial about denial now. Great. This was, he was certain, Lydia’s fault. He had met her yesterday, and, he’d need Bri to explain it to him later, but he swore when he saw her, everything stopped but her. Her hair, he recalled the most. It had been blowing in the breeze of a fan, each tendril reaching out to him like a helping hand. Each caresses of each tress was an invitation. Come to me, it said. He was certain of it.

And he certainly wanted to come to her.

She was so captivating he took his sunglasses off to really look at her. She had been wearing a lilac-colored flowing top that slithered over her body like leather. She had this quality to make even gauzy, floating fabrics sing on her skin. It was as if even something as blasé as fabrics wanted to be close to her. Everything, everyone wanted to be close to Lydia. Of this, Roger was also certain. He wanted to be close to her. Close enough to breathe in the scent of her skin, taste her sweat. Close enough to mingle his with hers.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, Roger was certain. Chatting with someone else, though he couldn’t recall details outside of her. Man or woman, it didn’t matter which, he did remember feeling jealous of whoever she was talking to; she should be talking to him. Maybe she should be talking to him forever.

In the club, they finally locked eyes, and he couldn’t remember his name.

His name.

He couldn’t remember his name.

At 32, he figured remembering his name would be routine by now. He had taken for granted, he guessed, the value of being able to instantly recall his own name. He was in denial, though. He was in Queen, one of the most famous bands in the world. He played the drums, wrote some songs, and sang with the best singer any rock-band has ever had. But what exactly what his own name? How many drinks had he had? Five? Maybe six? It was his first night back from tour, and he was letting go to be sure, but he had never forgotten his own name.

Or had he? No, he was certain he hadn’t and he was even more certain it had nothing to do with the alcohol. He wasn’t an amateur, after all.

He’d have to go to her. He finished off his gin, slid the glass down the bar. It was undeniably a slick move.

Then, before he could actually make his move, before he could walk even a pace, she started moving towards him.

Roger was stunned. He couldn’t move. Great. Now he couldn’t move or remember his name. What exactly was happening to him?

He was the kind of person who approached people, not the kind of person who was approached. It was a self-confidence thing, he thought. His confidence came from actions and making bold choices, and in a split second acting on them. He was thrown off by this reversal of fortune. Simultaneously attracted and afraid of her boldness, frozen to the spot, his appreciation and desire for her grew by the second.

Her dauntlessness did not help him recall his name, however. What if I can’t remember it by the time she gets to me? Leaning up against the bar, he tried to look cool, effortless, and coherent. He wasn’t the kind of person who had to try to look like any of those things, however. He just simply was cool, calculatingly so; he was effortless, easy to laugh and to make others laugh; he always had a comeback and would fight to the hilt in any argument; he had a reputation for drinking too much, partying too much, seducing too much, and good on him, he thought. The only problem here wasn’t his myriad appetites. The problem was that he was vastly intelligent on top of it all.

He was labeled the pretty one, and not the smart one. He had a brain, though he didn’t always have to resort to using it to get what he wanted; therefore, his means to challenging himself, to being entertained, increased in danger and intrigue over the years to satiate an unknown wish to be of use, to be challenged, to be seen as more than another stereotypical pretty rock-star.

Sizing up Lydia, he thought, brains or looks, which to use to win her?

The mistake was his, he’d find out later. Because they were birds of a feather in this respect; brians and dashingly good looks mixed in one vessel. A deadly combination in the right hands, he was certain. Maybe, he’d let her pick, let her speak first.

Lydia reached him, and stared at him. She said nothing, just looked at the only man worth looking at in the entire club. She raised a contoured eyebrow at him, silently asking him if the cat had his tongue.

“I’m afraid you have possession of something that is mine,” Roger Taylor said.

“Oh, what would that be? Your heart?” She rolled her eyes at him. She’d heard every line before. With each passing second he was disappointing her. She thought the great Roger Taylor would be different.

“My tongue,” he grinned at her.

It was her turn to be shocked now; she hadn’t expected that retort.

“I’d like it back,” he said, holding a hand out to her, presumably for his tongue back.

She took his hand, “Well, Roger Taylor, if I give it back to you, what will you do with it?”

Roger Taylor, right. He thought, “Well, come to my party tomorrow night, and I’ll show you. Beauty like yours should be shared.”

“Alright,” Lydia said. She brought his hand up to her mouth, and licked the back of it.

It was the most brazen act he had ever seen, ever been party to, and he couldn’t get enough of it–he couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted more.

Lydia let go of his hand, “Lydia Wesmor.”

“Roger Taylor,” he said.

“Yes, I know.” She said.

Did he know then she was everything he was looking for in a partner without knowing what he was looking for in the first place? Probably not, but he was a man in denial, after all. He told her the address of Garden Lodge, suggested she bring a friend, and put his baby blue sunglasses back on. He turned around to order drinks for them at the bar, but when he turned around to ask what she wanted, she was gone from sight.

Did I imagine her, he thought?

He kept tracing his fingers up Lydia’s thighs, pushing the boundaries as far as she’d allow him to. They were in public, after all, and in Freddie and Jim’s bedroom no less. Even though the band was used to this kind of behavior from him, he didn’t want to push boundaries with them too far right now; things were tense among the band these days.

It was the ridiculous disco album they were cutting, Roger thought. He didn’t want to think about it right now. No, right now he wanted to think about Lydia’s thighs, and what was between them, and how much he wanted to be between them.

Roger looked at her lips, then. Painted red, they were a toreador’s cape and he wasn’t strong enough to resist the urge to chase them. He wanted her. Though for how long, he couldn’t decide. His heart had already made up its mind on the matter, but he didn’t want to listen to his heart to right now. His heart only got him in trouble. And even though right now he wanted to be very naughty, he didn’t want to be in trouble. The difference was subtle, but not to him, to him it was a clear line. So, he pushed the sighs of his heart to the side, at least for tonight.

Over Lydia’s shoulder he saw Freddie’s arm slip from his knee and cascade into Jim’s. He saw Freddie trace the green seam in Jim’s pants, and soon they held hands. Freddie and Jim, how could Roger ever live up to them? God’s own bloody love story on bloody earth, he thought. Maybe it was better to not feel for others, to not have attachments, to not fall in love. But, they looked so happy, staring into each other’s eyes behind Lydia’s back.

Jim kissed Freddie’s hand.

A melancholic look flashed in Roger’s eyes, and he knew his heart wanted that kind of intimacy with someone. That tender gesture was so different from when he had met Lydia and she had licked his hand. Or was it? Maybe it was the same? This was a dangerous path, he thought.

He shook his head, in denial. “Lydia,” he said, “Can I take you away from these Queens?”

“Lay on, MacDuff,” Lydia challenged.

Roger Taylor, a man determined to not make up his mind yet, lifted Lydia into the air. She squealed playfully. He was stronger than he looked. He spun her around, and slowly, so slowly lowered her to the ground. Her feet touched the floor, and she looked up at him, smiling.

What was she thinking, he thought? Can she see right through me? He had never felt more invisible.

He was in denial again, because, for Lydia, he was all she saw.

She put her hand in his, ready for anything. Roger pulled her towards the doorway.

“If this is losing sardines, I must adopt the losing temperament more often.” Roger gloated to the room at large.

“That’d be a first,” Brian said, from his armchair.

Roger, leading Lydia through the doorway, heard Deacy singing behind him, “Ooh I need your loving…”

Freddie’s clear voice joined Deacy’s, “Ooh I need your loving tonight!”

Roger thought he’d still have the last laugh tonight.

Watching your friend leave with the one and only Roger Meddows Taylor, you found yourself thinking of John Deacon. You let your gaze return to him.

Deacy had been watching Freddie and Jim, a strange expression on his face, but his eyes flicked fast onto yours when he sensed you looking. A small smiled spread across his face.

“Are you all always like this?” You asked, intrigued.

“More or less,” Deacy said.

“A bit more lately, to be honest.” Brian added lightly. There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Any particular reason?” You questioned.

“Yes,” Brain said, “Though now isn’t the time to get into it.” He stood from his chair, and walked over to Freddie and Jim. “A great party as always, Fred.”

Freddie stood and hugged one of his oldest friends. Brain then hugged Jim. He turned to you, and extended his hand to you. “It really was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N. I hope we will see each other again soon.”

You stood to shake his hand, “I hope we do too, Brian.”

Deacy danced up to Brian to say goodnight.

“Don’t get into too much trouble, Deacy.” He said cheekily.

“There you go, confusing me for Rog, again.” Deacy shook his head, and hugged Brian.

Brian turned and walked through the bedroom door and out into the hallway beyond. His mind was buzzing. What a bizarre night! Full of new people, two in particular seemed to be likely to stick around, he thought. Two new women. It was so painfully easy for his friends to meet people. They all seemed to meet people wherever they went these days. Maybe meet wasn’t the right word, he reasoned. His friends seemed to easily become acquainted, instantly delve into knowing the people they’d meet. Brian would often fumble around his words around new people; he needed time to warm up, to get comfortable around people. Fred and Rog–even the quiet-as-a-game Deacy–took to people as easily as people took to them. It was, more or less, natural for them. Brian always had to work at it.

Brain marveled at their abilities to make themselves at home in any situation. He much preferred the company of animals to people. Maybe he just hadn’t met the right people yet. The right person, he thought. He wasn’t precisely lonely. But he did notice a vacancy in his life that had nothing to do with his robust friendships. Roger was his best friend. They couldn’t be more different in some respects. Here he was, leaving Fred’s party alone, while Roger was leaving with another stunning woman on his arm. People rarely made sense; this was why he enjoyed physics. Everything had its place and if one factor was obstructed, or flawed, it showed, and was easily solved. You couldn’t just solve people. Especially not his friends. They were all so confusingly different and splendid. Brain didn’t want to think of what life would be life without them; even on the days when they were fighting more than creating music, he still loved them. He wouldn’t change them for the world. Though he wouldn’t mind a romantic relationship of his own in the meantime.

“Did one of you manage to lift Rog’s keys tonight?” Freddie asked in a way that made this seem old hat, like it was another private game they all played with each other.

“I did,” Deacy said, pulling a pair of keys from his pants pocket. He tossed them to Jim.

“When he found us at the bar, right?” Jim asked. “You were quite subtle.”

“Was he, darling?” Freddie asked, excitedly wanting every detail of parts of the party he had missed.

“I was impressed. Roger was so distracted by Deacy’s interest in Y/N, here. He wasn’t able to really focus on anything else, including the stealing his car keys.”

Deacy smiled at Jim, and walked over to you, “Was it really that obvious?” He asked you.

“Was what obvious?” You asked, not wanting to assume.

“My interest in you?”

“Yes,” You and Jim said at the same time. You both laughed. Jim gave you an encouraging wink.

“Well, shall we leave them alone, you think, my love?” Freddie asked Jim theatrically.

“What? In our bedroom?” Jim asked in mock-horror. “Good lord, imagine what they’d do in here if left alone…”

“I do suppose we could stay and watch…?” Freddie suggested.

“For science, surely.” Jim responded, “Brian would want us to collect data, after all…”

“We could even join them, I suppose.” Freddie sighed, it was the sigh of a man mustering up the courage to do a job no one really wanted to do. It was all an act, and he had it down to a tee. Everything was a production.

“They might need pointers.” Jim agreed.

“Have you ever even slept with a woman?” Freddie asked incredulously.

“Well, no,” Jim said, “But I’m sure I could figure out the mechanics.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Deacy come to an understanding.

“All over our sheets, though?” Jim rubbed his mustache lost in torrid thoughts of his own. Past memories, so fresh and quick to rise for him, played through his mind.

“Darling, I’ll happily buy you new sheets.” Freddie laced his fingers through Jim’s.

They were both thinking of his closet full of pants.

“Fuck the sheets; you make me happy, Freddie Mercury.”

“I always will.” Freddie stole a quick kiss from Jim and pulled him through the doorway.

Jim turned back and smiled at you before blowing a kiss in your direction. He turned, put an arm around his husband, and closed the door on you and John Deacon.

Everything was orange-heat, red-silence. Steam-like breaths.

You stood, staring at Deacy.

Deacy stood, staring at you.

Breathing as one, you waited for the moment to strike, like hot iron, when you could no longer delay the inevitable. Your entire body tingled with fire, more alive now than it ever had been. It was akin to the joy you felt playing music at your piano: unbridled, immersive, simple and sweet. You knew he was engulfed as well in his own desires for you and in his desires to delay the moment of touch as long as possible. This, like everything else in his life, was a game. And all games could be won.

Deacy’s eyes traced over your body. Attempting to lure you into breaking first. His eyelashes brushed up and down with his silent sighs, each movement a symphony to longing. His eyes painted his unspoken inclinations on your frame, curious what sounds he could stir from you with his hands, his lips, his tongue, his penis. He’d have to try them all, he reasoned. He almost broke himself, then. Allowing himself to imagine the feeling of entering you. You saw his fist clench, tighten and pulse, before relaxing once more at his side. No, he contemplated. He could wait.

He did have very skilled hands, you thought. Capable of keeping time, landing complex rhythms with ease and mastery only the marriage of talent and practice can bring. Any single way he decided to enter you, could devastate you, you reasoned. You had felt his prodigious cock earlier in the evening through his bright red jeans. Your breath caught for a second as you imagined him parting the lips of your vagina. Maybe with his hands. Maybe with the rushing of his dick. You stopped yourself. These thoughts would not help you win this test of wills.

You decided his eyes would be safer. Those sometimes-green sometimes-gray eyes. Clever eyes. Cavalier eyes. The forest at night sang from his eyes. Oh, and how he’d make you sing, you thought. He could play you like a flute, and my how you’d gladly sing for him.

This also wasn’t helping. You wanted his hands on you, dancing up your back and over your breasts, cradling your face as you kissed. You bit your lip in silent frustration. You weren’t sure how much more of this alluring, exciting, and vexing game you could take; this was a paradox, too. How could something so tantalizing and salacious be so pleasantly annoying at the same time?

Deacy couldn’t stop looking at your lips. The second you bit your lip, he shivered. He wanted to be the one biting your luscious lips. Why on earth wasn’t he yet? He licked his lips.

You blushed crimson-hot at this simple act of his.

“I saw that.” His voice was deeper than usual and unabashedly competitive.

It was without exception the sexiest three words you had ever heard.

“Oh? What did you see, John Deacon?” You still had a couple cards to play.

His voice, still deep, was breathless. “I saw,” he panted, “you blush.”

Your voice was a trap. “Why on earth would I do that?” You asked, staring him down.

“Because you cannot help yourself.” It wasn’t a question. He moved, then, closing the distance between you two. Putting his hands on your waist, he pulled you to him, racing his hands up your back. The kiss wasn’t shy; it was certain.

You put your hands on his face, and responded to his kiss with ecstatic force. Each kiss was a promise, something chaste sealed in wet concupiscence. Every word he had said that night, every testimony to his early devotion to you, rang true with each shifting sway of his lips on yours. He opened his mouth slowly, running a hand over your breasts. He was humming slightly, some tune you couldn’t distinguish, some music that was all his own. Maybe it belonged to you, too.

You slipped your tongue into his mouth, finding your rhythms quite naturally. You moved your hands to his hair. If hair could dance, his was; it swayed in agreement to your touch.

“Y/N,” Deacon moaned lightly.

You pulled your lips from his, “Johnny?” You said without thinking.

You felt him pause, and then his lips spread into a smile as he kissed you with renewed meaning. “We shouldn’t,” he said, “be doing this on the first date.”

“Technically, we haven’t even had a first date,” you reminded him between kisses.

His hands slid down your body as he pulled away from you, taking your hand, leading you to the bed.

Deacon sat, looking up at you, waiting.

Wanting him, you decided to play your last card.

In one fluid movement, you straddled him.

He froze, only slightly surprised at your darning move.

It was his turn to blush.

He placed his hands on your knees, still looking up at you. Slowly, he started moving his hands up your thighs.

You arched your back, moaning softly. This was ridiculous, feeling so elated, such inscrutable longing over such an innocent touch. Well, innocent compared to other deeper touches, you thought. This desire was something new for you: instant and frightening. You wanted him in ways you couldn’t understand yet. You had never wanted someone so badly, and it scared you. What if he was the one? And this was the night you met? The night that would change the entire course of your life? This was also ridiculous; you could never know that now, not this early, not yet…

His hands paused high on your thighs, his thumbs poised over your clitoris, but not touching it. He was teasing you, now. Maybe for making him blush, you questioned?

You swallowed with difficulty. You were inescapably wet. Gazing at his hands, you breathed deeply, making your chest rise.

Deacon waited, still as a statue. Your attempts at seduction, working quite well, were not enough to break him yet. He wanted more than anything to touch you further, to, with motion and circles, and rhythms, bring you to climax with deft precision. He wanted to know what you tasted like.

His penis was stiffening steadily beneath you. You could tease him, perhaps? Quite literally force his hand?

As if sensing what you were thinking, he commanded, very softly, “No, don’t move yet.” He closed his eyes and breathed, centering himself.

You had never had quite an opponent as this before. His self-control was steadfast, upright, and deliberate. He opened his eyes, looking at the bow-tie at your waist. You were wearing your green wrap dress, you recalled.

Shit, you thought, he had you now.

“This unties your dress?” He asked, voice husky.

“Yes,” you admitted.

“Just this one, simple knot?”

“Just the one.”

He smiled at you, biting his lip.

That’s when he didn’t move his hands. No, that would have been too easy.

John Deacon bent his head to your waist, and bit the knot. Pulling with his teeth and using his tongue, he untied the knot. Your dress started slipping from your shoulders, seductively. He yanked once more quickly upwards, and returned with the rope in his mouth. Smiling, as impressed with himself as you were, he let it drop from his lips. He looked at your breasts, most coherent thoughts erased from his mind.

Your bra was a lacy periwinkle one you had begrudgingly let Lydia pick out for you; now, however, you were thankful for her input. Deacon exhaled, and you felt him leaning in, probably to lick up your chest and neck again like he had in the pantry.

You let him get within a hair’s width of his target before saying, “Not yet.”

He stopped, per your request. He pulled back, looking into your eyes. He tried leaning into your lips. This, you decided to allow.

His hands were still poised high on your thighs, hovering above your clitoris. You kissed very lightly, like you were memorizing every line, every facet of each other’s lips.

“Don’t move your hands,” You said, kissing with slightly more force now.

“I thought you wanted me to move my hands?” Deacon questioned with a sigh alight with desire.

“Oh, I do. But where’s the fun in getting everything you want?”

He laughed lightly, it was a laugh with the tinges of a moan, with the throws of understanding. This game wasn’t dangerous because you both knew the rules without even having to explain them to each other. It was as if this was a dance you had been dancing together your entire lives. Perhaps he knew then, what you were, what you could be to each other.

He kissed you more deeply, moaning into your mouth.

You really couldn’t take much more of this foreplay. A resolution needed to be reached.

“Maybe now, though?” You questioned, and in your question, you had his hands in mind.

“No,” Deacon said, “I don’t think so.” He bent down, then. His tongue touched the crux of your bra. He took in your scent, floral and sweet, just like before. As he licked up your chest, up your neck, he rocked his body into yours. In your mind, you flashed to what it would be like to be naked together, rocking with your rhythms together, bringing each other to a separate kind of resolution. Fulfilling each other completely. But that wasn’t now, that was some future you, in some other place and time.

This was now: tongue at your chin, he skipped up to your lips, kissing you deeply while simultaneously, moving his thumbs for the first time. The sensation, even over your tights, was electric. He was moving his thumbs in intersecting circles, gazing into your eyes.

The tension was building in your body. You felt your muscles begin tightening in that glorious, slow climb to whatever inevitable orgasm was to come. You slipped your hands to the waistband of your tights, and slid them down your ass, down your thighs, to your knees. Deacon paused, only momentarily, to make sure you didn’t fall from his lap while maneuvering, quite impressively, to remove your tights while remaining straddled along him. He placed his hands, warm from friction, back on your bare thighs. He kissed your neck. Taking his dominant hand, he resumed those circles on your clit, before flipping his hand over, keeping his thumb in the game, and using his index finger to coax you further. His middle finger joined the dance, and he wrapped his other hand around your waist. Deacon, breathing into your lips, his lips close enough to kiss, but hovering without, flicked his eyes on to yours.

You were breathing faster and faster, your hips slowly responding to the rhythms of his fingers. Every muscle was tightening, screaming, demanding sweet release.

“We are not leaving this room,” he whispered into your mouth, “Until you cum for me.” It was a simple demand, you thought. An easy demand. A nice demand.

Staring into his eyes, you went to that place in your mind. Every muscle was ready, so it was time for the mind, now. Every thought was of him, his hands, his movement. The look in his eyes of complete satisfaction from your enjoyment. Him kissing you in the pantry, on the bed, the fire of your first touch. The singing of your body for him. And he was moving with such steady, accomplished rhythms, such care to detail, you couldn’t wait any longer to fulfill his demand.

Your orgasm cascaded through your body. You moved your hands to his shoulders and clenched them as every muscle tensed in one perfect unison of movement. Sweat glistened on your chest; he pinched your clit, still throbbing from your orgasm. He tightened the pressure skillfully, making your orgasm lengthen, also proud of his achievement. Sweetly kissing your lips, your neck, he kept his pressure steady until you felt your throbbing stop. Your breath began to slow as your muscles started to relax into normalcy. You leaned into him completely at ease in fantastic bliss. He laid back, as you leaned into him.

Laying on each other, on the bed, your breathing became united.

You could still feel his erection between your legs.

Deacon’s arms were spread out on either side on him, eyes closed in a quiet, serene joy all his own.

You moved your hand to creep at the waistband of his jeans.

He delicately stopped your progression with his hand.

“Reciprocity,” You reminded him. It had been your first promise, after all.

“There is nothing quite like the pleasure of already getting what you wanted,” he said simply.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger faces an unexpected, expected dilemma.

Roger Taylor knew where he was going. He always had a plan, even if the plan was to not have a plan. In his mind, it still counted. Holding Lydia’s hand, he navigated the interior of Garden Lodge like he had built it himself, brick by brick. The rooms had emptied quite a bit by this point, which made the journey all the easier.

“Where are you taking me?” Lydia purred.

“I’m taking my favorite person to my favorite place.” He smirked at Lydia, running his free hand through his blond hair.

“It’s a surprise.”

“Everything about me is a surprise, love.”

“Ditto,” Lydia challenged, “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

Roger paused in a dark hallway, pushed Lydia up against the wall, and stared at her, a silent challenge, before slowly closing the distance; he was a man on the prowl. He put his hands on the wall, over her head, leaning in to her. Roger kissed her, not caring who passed them by and saw this scene; he didn’t care about such trivial concerns. Just as suddenly as he had kissed her, he stopped, taking her by the hand, and continued to pull her towards his chosen destination. His hands were exceptionally rough. She felt blisters in various stages of healing, and wondered if it was painful, and how she might help him.

Lydia followed with mounting curiosity and flowing desire. He tried very hard, she thought, to seem mysterious; there was little not on the surface regarding Roger Taylor. This wasn’t to say he wasn’t deep; he was quite profound when he wanted to be; he just didn’t see the need to hide his feelings, fears, and predilections. He wasn’t ashamed of going after what he wanted, even if he wasn’t clear on his own motivations, his intentions always were explicit, transparent, and knowable. Sooner than anticipated, Roger led Lydia through a backdoor on the first floor.

The garden was expansive, well-maintained, and like something out of a fairy-tale. Lydia half expected to see a white or black queen walking among the prevalent ferns and countless rose and lilac bushes. A giant weeping willow swayed in the soft night winds. A Japanese-inspired pond rested near the willow with room for lounging. The delphiniums were the prize of the garden, however; towering slightly above the garden walls in the brilliant shades of sunset: pale lapis, darker-than-sin violets, and passionate cobalts. The combined scent was astonishingly delicate.

“It’s glorious, Rog.” Lydia had stopped walking, taking in the hidden paradise; she tugged on Roger’s hand to halt his progress.

“Jim’s doing, all of it.” Roger explained, admiring a wall of ivy, “He has a gift.”

“I’ll say,” Lydia agreed.

“They’d all die without his care. Wither away. I remember when Freddie moved in, there was no garden to speak of, and there wouldn’t be without Jim.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything as much as Jim loves this garden.” Lydia mused aloud, imagining the years Jim had put into maintaining this luscious oasis.

Roger gazed at her, then. Not only because of her self-aware and bold statements he had come to treasure from her, but because in this setting she was especially exquisite.

In the moonlight, she glowed faintly. Actually glowed with the flickering street lights and over-large moon. He couldn’t imagine anyone more dazzling. He was captivated. Simply speechless in her presence. He had felt desire before. Overwhelming desire, in fact. Given himself over to lust on multiple occasions with joyous abandon. But love? He wasn’t so sure anymore. Looking at Lydia felt like looking at a renaissance painting; far too wise and far too cherished to touch; yet, like all children when told not to touch something so protected and so gorgeous, he felt all the more compelled.

The gentle, goldenrod waves of her hair shifted in the wind, just as on the night he first met her. He put a hand to his lips, the same hand she had licked that same night. The red dress was affecting him profoundly. Well, no, that wasn’t entirely correct; the woman in the red dress was affecting him, but he hadn’t worked out the difference yet. He took his glasses off, like on that night, to see her better; which didn’t help, because he couldn’t see without them. It was a secret desire to see her with no barriers, with his guard down. He wanted to witness her in all her prismatic beauty with as much vulnerable closeness as possible. He didn’t know how to do it, though. Every relationship prior to Lydia had always had some unspoken profound distance between him and his conquest. That’s the problem: they were conquests. Now, he was her conquest, he questioned? Or were they equals? He didn’t know. He couldn’t be certain. Though, maybe, he was imagining this sudden attachment. Maybe he was saying he was imagining it to escape having to explain it.

There was that battle again, between denial and acceptance. It was his common playground by now. A land he had been treading since childhood. There was something desperately dismal about it now, he thought. Some profound sadness about his predicament. Pleasure didn’t always equal happiness, perhaps. Well, not lasting happiness anyway. But how to begin?

He settled for the first thing that came to mind. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone.” Roger said aloud for the first time ever.

Lydia turned and looked at him, struck to the core. Were there tears in his eyes? Behind the umber glasses it was hard to tell. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. Perhaps he was a trick of the light, giving her some line he didn’t need to give her anyway. She was determined this was going to happen. It was happening on her terms with her full acceptance. What hope did she have to think it would last beyond tonight? Roger Taylor was a notorious scoundrel. There’s no way he was being vulnerable with her now. What was he playing at?

“Oh, I doubt the great Roger Taylor has never been in love…” she said playfully, trying desperately to lighten the suddenly stifling atmosphere.

Looking at her, he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he already was and didn’t know it yet. Denial, he thought, the only thing as wicked as he was. “The truth,” he said, “is rarely what we want it to be.”

There it was again, thought Lydia. That piercingly unexpected depth from The Blond God. He looked pensive; a weight of anguish pressed upon his usually sparkling eyes she hadn’t anticipated. It was a vacant sorrow that evaporated everything from view. In that moment, he was blind to everything. Lydia gripped his hand, trying to return him to her.

He smiled lightly, pulling her to his side once more. “Come on, love. I must have you before the sun rises. During, too, for that matter.” He waggled his pale eyebrows at her, thinking of her body glistening in the morning sun, thinking of her hair, her thighs; he happily retreated back into the cozy sanctuary of his denial once more.

They effortlessly exited the garden through a wrought-iron gate. Something about it’s design reminded Lydia of the cover to A Day at the Races, but Roger was on a mission; it was clear he wasn’t interested in pausing to admire any view that wasn’t Lydia. He took her down an alley. It was unmarked, though for a couple of blocks he took them down a true path of his own design. He stopped suddenly, breaking out onto a street lined with townhouses and cars. He headed for a red Alfa Romeo convertible.

It was his life. He took care of it like most people took care of a sickly animal or an aging parent. Every detail he had painstakingly picked and enhanced. If he had to choose between saving himself or his car, he’d choose his car every damn time. Sure, he had written that song about the love of his life, his “car,” and had taken so much shit for it ever since, but it was worth it. Fuck them, he thought, if they didn’t get it.

Roger savored every line of his Alfa Romeo as he savored every line of Lydia’s body. He’d just have to take her right now, and it could only happen in his car. He patted his breast pocket for his keys, and found nothing. He checked his pants next, and that too yielded nothing.

“Those absolute assholes,” Roger said with more affection than he’d like to admit. Thank god he had left the top down.

“Something wrong?” Lydia asked, twirling a strand of her straw-colored hair in her hand, leaning up against his baby like she belonged there. Maybe she did, Roger contemplated.

And there he was unable to remember exactly what the issue had been. She certainly had a way about her, a way with him.

“Absolutely nothing, love.” He said, lifting her up in his arms, and placing her on the passenger’s side seat of the car. He hopped over the door to the driver’s side, and turned to face her, his Goddess in Red.

Exposed or not, there would be action this night.

Roger wasted no time. He didn’t play coy; that wasn’t his style. He put his hand on Lydia’s thigh.

She decided to raise the stakes, however. Risk big to get big was her motto.

Lydia shifted over the gear shaft to straddle Roger. The car was small, so it took great skill on her behalf to accomplish this while still looking fantastically alluring. He smiled at her trying to push all thoughts from his mind. Thoughts relating to soulmates. Thoughts relating to love. He pulled her into a kiss. It could have been a kiss without end. Mouths open, tongues circling, it had a tinge of desperate passion both found intoxicating. 

This wild meeting of skilled lips lasted until Lydia pulled him away from her lips. She pulled him away by clutching strands of his perfect blond hair. Clawing into his hair with both hands, she stared him down, waiting for his response. Waiting to see if they were birds of a feather in all respects.

Roger laughed. It was the laugh commonly used when something is casually called “too good to be true.” Roger, however, wasn’t a doubter; he knew Lydia was true, good, and only mad happenstance could have brought her into his life. He knew she was inclined to certain proclivities like he was; it was time to play.

He attempted to kiss her, trying to charm her with his eyes, and overpower her with his neck muscles. She kept him from it, by pulling him back by his hair again. Was he giving in to her that easily, she wondered?

Roger Meddows Taylor never gave in.

Lydia saw something dark and flinty flash through his light blue eyes; it was the look of a man who didn’t lose, she thought. It was the look of a man who never lost. He took his sunglasses off, tossing them to the floor of the car in one fluid motion. That gesture attempted to say he was in control, he was in charge, that she would listen, obey, and do as she was told. A lot could be communicated with merely the flick of a wrist, Lydia thought.

He reached up, glaring benignly, seductively at Lydia, and wrapped a plentiful length of her hair around his fist.

This was what the kids referred to as an impasse.

A stalemate.

There was nothing stale about this mating, however.

Gripping each other’s hair in their determined hands, they stared at each other, waiting. Breathing as one, posed to strike, they savored the moments before the battle commenced.

Lydia couldn’t get enough of his eyes. That color, she thought. What was it? Cerulean? Cyan? As a painter, she should be able to identify the color of a person’s eyes. His hair was silky to the touch; it was clear he cared a great deal about his appearance. He was too pretty to be allowed. Pretty enough to pass as a women, if he so desired.

And he was so effortlessly desirable.

Lydia bared her teeth are him.

“Just try me,” he dared her. She decided to call his bluff; she went in for the bite, aiming at his neck, just above his clavicle. He stopped her, just before the moment of contact, by pulling her hair. Lydia moaned in frustration. She was not typically in a position like this; she was always the dominant one. What exactly happened when two doms tried to have sex, she questioned? Might as well as ask what was the sound of one hand clapping?

She’d have to up the ante. Lydia reached down with a claw-like hand, grabbed Roger’s cock over his pants, and slowly applied pressure, watching his pupils dilate. Just to show she meant business, Lydia kept her hand there, poised to give him a reminder of her strength as needed.

He smirked at her, knowing instantly he had simultaneously judged her correctly and terribly, if not hilariously, wrongly.

Lydia felt Roger getting hard beneath her hand. He had no intentions of hiding his growing joy at being in such a spot of danger. He couldn’t recall the last time he had been so turned on; every nerve in his body was on edge, drumming up the excitement. He wasn’t always this lucky. Finding someone who enjoyed the same games he did was a rarity.

“If you do that again,” he warned, “I’ll have no choice but to make you regret it, Lydia.”

“Try me, Roger.” Lydia responded chilling ice painted on her voice.

That’s when Roger Taylor bit Lydia’s neck.

She moaned in unexpected pleasure, and surprise. He was fast, viper-quick. Roger was as deadly as he was handsome. He continued biting down her decolletage, until he reached the base of the V-neck of her dress.

“May I rip your dress?” Roger asked.

It wasn’t a submissive ask; it was a genuine question to locate her line that wasn’t to be crossed; negotiation was a necessary part of the etiquette here. Roger was a cad, perhaps, but he was also a superior man of honor.

“This is one of my favorites…” Lydia whispered in mock-uncertainty.

“I’ll buy you a new one.” Roger challenged.

Lydia consented by throwing her neck back dramatically.

Letting go of Lydia’s hair, he took his strong hands, well toned from constant drumming, and carefully sunk his hands into the V of her neckline. He flicked his sky-colored eyes up to Lydia’s face, mostly to check her body language. She was, he could feel, substantially wet. Her breathing was even and she looked radiant, and without fear; she trusted him. He took it as the double confirmation he needed. In one swift movement, he ripped the dress down the center to her navel. The shriek that escaped her body was one of acute ecstasy.

Roger, however, had left himself vulnerable for attack. She leaned into him, as he admired her breasts, and bit his neck as she had originally desired to do.

He moaned, a mix of pain and pleasure. He quickly retook her hair in his hands, and pulled her back. She started unzipping his pants; he leaned up into her to help her pull them off more easily. He reached behind Lydia, and unclasped her bra in a skilled snapping of his fingers.

It seemed to matter very little–if indeed at all–that they were outdoors, visible, and about to have sex in a convertible car with the top down. These details were inconsequential to them; this act, being together in this moment, was all that mattered.

He slipped her useless dress sleeves from her arms, and removed her bra.

She removed the obstacle of his underwear.

Roger reached up under what was left of her dress to slide off her own underwear, and found, to is equal surprise and excitement, she wasn’t wearing any.

Meeting zero resistance, his cock exceptionally stiff, he reached his nimble fingers inside of her vagina, savoring the warmth as much as the small sigh that escaped her lips. He worked his fingers inside her slowly at first. Watching as each movement compelled her to breathe with mounting force. The sight of her joy brought him elation beyond all comparison. She was a sight to behold, rocking in the moonlight. He couldn’t wait any longer to have her completely. Roger slipped his fingers from her folds, and easily slid his cock inside her.

The feeling was thought-dashing. Nothing existed while simultaneously everything that ever would matter existed in this moment, in this touch, in this union. He couldn’t think, his vision was full of her, of her breathing, of her movements, of her glorious breasts. She inspired such rhythms in him, only music could express them adequately.

Lydia wrapped her arms around Roger’s neck, bringing him in for an engrossing kiss, before starting a slow cycle of hip movements in a rhythm he easily duplicated.

He dexterously joined her movements in merry syncopation. Roger wrapped one arm around her waist, and used the other to absentmindedly pinch her firm nipples. He thought mostly of her hair responding lightly to the wind, to their own movements; he’d bring a hand up to grasp sections of it from time to time, too sweet to neglect, too powerful to not eroticize.

She slowly sped up her rhythms, which he deftly matched, never rushing, always on pace.

Quite exposed, neither wanted to prolong the moment. If it was to be, Lydia thought, they’d have the opportunity to try all sorts of compromising positions with each other down the road.

“I am close,” Roger whispered, tugging on her hair.

She was too, and knew what she needed to push her over the edge. “Pull harder–now!” Lydia requested.

Roger happily obliged, pulling on her hair, watching her back arch as she slammed up against her own orgasm.

Never one to be showed up, Roger followed suit, meeting his own orgasm like an old friend. 

They held each other, breathing in their mingled scents, proud of what they had achieved together. He tightly held her up against his body, and knew a true and lasting contentment he had never before experienced. Slowly, their breathing returned to normal.

He pulled away from her, momentarily. Gazing into Lydia’s eyes, Roger asked, “So, who won, do you reckon?”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You contemplate your worth; John Deacon contemplates you; a date is made; Roger and Lydia discover what’s missing.

You felt yourself swinging in and out of joyous dozing. You had never been good at, or indeed capable of sleeping when another person was in your bed. When someone else was your guest in your bed, you’d pretend to have had a pleasant night’s sleep. When, in fact, you had had anything but a decent night’s rest. You’d toss and turn, or, even worse, be too afraid to move for fear of waking the other person up. You’d lay in a prison of your mind all night. Wishing you were somewhere else or someone else. Someone who enjoyed the act of sleeping with other people. Someone who enjoyed sleep, might be more to the point, you thought. You liked the idea of that kind of vulnerability, but you had never been able to achieve it. Did that mean you had never really found someone you felt capable of relaxing with, you wondered? Was it some fatal flaw, some great deficiency that you felt entirely uncomfortable sleeping next to someone? Maybe you weren’t too damaged to love, but too damaged to sleep next to. Maybe it meant the same thing. You weren’t sure. Thousands of people slept next to someone every night and didn’t bat an eye, literally. Yet, here you were, laying on a rock-star, and for the first time in your life you were slowly drifting into a state of sleep while having another person in bed with you.

John Deacon felt your breathing slow with the sway that comes from absolute comfort and long-term intimacy. He was astounded at the connection you had made in just one night, in a handful of hours. There was a closeness here it took years to lay the foundations for, a sense of great ease only friends could share. He hoped it was real, actualized, and not merely a fantasy he had concocted to feel less lonely. Had he fabricated a closeness to you to feel alive? He had met a lot of people, attempted to make connections to a fair few of them, and had frequently come up with nothing. He felt, perhaps, he wasn’t easily loved, simple to understand, worth of a life-changing connection with someone. Yet it was just that connection with someone that he longed for so deeply he was too afraid to speak it out loud for some childish fear it would be outright rejected as something he would never get.

You were dozing in top of him, a detail he noticed by the small, endearing snores coming from you. He wrapped his arms around you, worried what would happen when the night ended. Would he ever see you again? Would you let him? You had done something especially intimate here tonight, forward, even, and maybe you’d second guess what you had done? Maybe you’d gotten what you wanted, were satiated, and required him no more? He increased his holding pressure on you as his fear rose.

You woke up, feeling confused as to where you were. Then you felt Deacy breathing beneath you, and remembered: ah, the bed, the touching, the game. It had been entirely fantastic to be that close with someone without having to explicitly explain what you wanted or needed. The line was very thin, you thought, between what one wanted and what one needed. You were becoming more and more unsure of where that line was regarding Deacy. How ridiculous, you thought; it’s only been one night. There was something here, though, wasn’t there? Something real? You’d hate to think this was all he wanted, or, in your mind, even worse, all that you had wanted. Closeness didn’t come easily to you. People had desired you, sure, but actually letting them in? You weren’t even sure you knew how to do that, let alone recognize it when it was happening or had already happened. Had he merely said all those wonderful things about his intentions with you to get you into bed? You hadn’t thought so then, but now, now that foggy monster in the back of your mind was doing its best to remind you that you weren’t special, that you weren’t worth sticking around for, that you weren’t anything.

You breathed him in, his sweat reminded you of the something briny, the sea, maybe, mixed with cedarwood. “I’m sorry I fell asleep.” You said, still resting on him, “I’ve never done that before.”

“What? Fallen asleep?” He was teasing, now, his voice back to its usual luster.

“No. I mean–yes.” You admitted, “I’ve never been able to sleep while being held by someone else. Or really if anyone else was around.”

Deacy thought in silence, interrupted only by the sounds of your joint breathing. He enjoyed the luxury of sleeping next to someone. Traveling and being on tour, constantly away from home and loved ones, didn’t exactly make for a not lonely life. It wasn’t impossible to stomach, was most certainly worth it for the ability to create music, and play it for his fans, but it wasn’t a loquacious life, a life steered by a great romantic partnership he so craved. It was a life of hotel rooms and foreign languages, and strange lands. A life of fame is a life solitary life, he contemplated. To be so desired and yet so alone seemed entirely unfair to him.

“Did you like it–the sleep?” He asked quietly, drawing shapes on your back as you talked.

“I don’t think I’ve ever slept so well in my entire life.” You said, curious how long you’d been dead to the world.

“Well, I’d ardently take up the post of your pillow any day of the week.”

“Don’t offer something like that if you can’t follow through on it.” It wasn’t harsh, exactly, but it was certainly honest; it escaped your mouth before you could stop yourself.

A silence again. Breathing again.

“I am not in the habit of say things, of making commitments, I do not, or cannot keep.” Deacy said exceptionally seriously, and as slowly as dripping wax. “We’ve just returned from a tour, and won’t be leaving again for at least a year; we’re beginning work on this…album.” His voice trailed off, and you had the distinct impression he did not want to talk much about it.

“I didn’t mean to imply you’d be running off,” you said softly. “Only that, well,” it was now or never, you figured, “I didn’t want to assume that you’d want anything further to do with me after tonight. I know you said as much to the contrary earlier, but that was before we had whatever that was and maybe this was all you needed and–!”

Before you could say anything else, Deacy chose that moment to remind of you of his unyielding determination to have you in his life. He lifted you, scooting you up his body, to make kissing you possible and easy. It was a tender embrace, layered with everything he wished he was capable of saying to make you believe him. The issue, he figured, wasn’t with is words, but with something or someone in your past that had made you feel unworthy of meaning beyond what you had to offer with your body. Words wouldn’t work, he thought. He could reassure you until he was blue in the face and there would be the lingering chance you might not believe him. Actions would have to be his proof.

“Would you be interested” Deacy asked slowly, “in accompanying me to a business dinner Monday night? I know it wouldn’t be a typical first date, but it would be an excuse to see each other before I call you tomorrow asking you on a legitimate first date later in the week.”

He could feel your heart racing, and he couldn’t tell if it was a good beat or a bad beat. “Y/N, you going to need to tell me if you are nervous or excited; I can’t tell the difference between heartbeats.” 

“With as many love songs as you’ve written, you should be a pro at identifying the difference.” You said as lightheartedly as you could manage.

Deacy tried to laugh your comment off; he could tell from the tone in your voice you had returned from whatever dark hole you had dragged yourself into, or been dragged into. His own anxiety, however, had only increased since asking you on a date, without receiving an answer.

You had been foolish, you thought. Of course he had meant what he had said. This man was genuine. A cipher, sure, but he didn’t strike you as a liar.

“Deacy,” you pulled up from him, sitting up on the bed. “I’d love to go to a work function with you.” You heard him breathe deeply, still laying on the bed. It was a sigh of relief, and the smile on his face was quite satisfied. “Did you honestly think even for a second I’d say no?” You asked, curious if he had secret worries of his own.

“Stranger things have happened; shocking, I know, that I’d get turned down for dates all the time.”

You weren’t sure if he was joking or not. You pulled your dress up your shoulders and began tying the knot into place.

“Here,” he said, sitting up suddenly, “Let me.” He had a strong connection to clothes; they were, if he was perfectly honest, a strong turn-on for him; the act of dressing and undressing could be just as pleasing as an alluring touch or a passionate kiss.

You stopped tying your dress into place. His hands touched yours as he took the rope from you. The spark in his touch was just as powerful as when he had first taken your hand to examine it earlier in the night. He had been attempting to prove that he knew you without ever really talking to you. You had been taken aback by his accuracy. He adequately tied the knot, gazing at your face the entire time. There was something far away in your eyes; he raised an eyebrow at you, as if to ask where you had gone.

“I was thinking about when you took my hand tonight. Back at the bar,” You explained.

“That’s right,” he said, remembering the moment now for himself. “You’re a musician, too? If I’m recalling correctly? You never really answered.”  
“I was too distracted by you.” You admitted.

“Well?” He questioned excitedly, “Are you?”

“I am, yes. I play the piano. Well, I play a couple other instruments too, but that’s my main.”

“The piano!” Deacy smiled, completely engrossed in everything, anything you had to say. “Why the piano?”

You could get used to that kind of attention, you thought. “You know how when you hear a song, or read a book and something in it speaks directly to you? Like maybe it had even been written for you, it felt so personal and knowable? That’s how I feel when I play; like the world is a little bit smaller, that people are relatable, that I’m having tea with a friend I’ve known all my life. It’s the one relationship I know will always be there for me, no matter what. All I have to do is sit and play, and I’m in that moment of wholeness every time.”

Deacy couldn’t get enough of you. Speaking about the piano made you shine, just like you did the first time he saw you across a crowded room. Passion was painted on your every word, commitment and connection crafted every syllable. You could make a deaf person hear, he thought.

“Does that sound crazy?” You asked.

“No.” Deacy said certainly. “I know precisely what you mean.”

“Do you feel that when you play?”

“I do; when I compose,” He took your hand in his, “I feel exactly that. That maybe each line is a connection I’m making to someone else, someone I may never know, may never meet. But it could mean everything to them. It does to me. Something in me becomes ultimately knowable through them, or something. There’s nothing else I would rather be doing…” His words drifted off to a meek, if not embarrassed silence. He wasn’t so sure anymore. He was sure about the music and the act of creating it, but he was less certain if it was all he’d rather be doing; tonight, being here, being home, and meeting you had changed something profoundly for him, something he was still working towards putting a name to, something he was still trying to suss out. Maybe you were a new priority? He hoped you’d give him the time to figure it out.

“What do you mean you can’t find them?” Lydia asked, slightly annoyed, somewhat amused. Lydia was wearing Roger’s rainbow sequin blazer. It was buttoned all the way up; she had tied the top part of her dress around her waist like a belt. She managed, somehow, against all odds, to still look extraordinary put together and fashionable.

“I mean one of my lousy friends stole them,” Roger said exasperatedly rubbing an angry hand through is too blond hair. He shivered in the night wind, now only wearing a white T-shirt that showed off his arms. His black tuxedo pants looked bizarrely out of place without the flashy blazer.

“You love them, Rog.” Lydia simpered. “You can’t fool me.”

“I’m well aware of both facts, thank you very much, love.” He said sarcastically. The smile on his, however, was quite sincere; she had hit the nail on the head, because despite the teasing, despite the pranks, he loved them unconditionally; Queen was his family.

“You wanna complain about them, because somehow in your twisted, ego-driven head it makes it easier for you love them.”

Roger flicked his blue eyes onto Lydia; the same steely look took hold of them that had possessed him in his Alfa Romeo earlier when she had been on top of him, when they had been holding each other’s hair, daring each other to act, “‘twisted’ and ‘ego-driven’ you say?” His eyebrows, above his glasses, danced mischievously in the moonlight.

Lydia sighed, “I mean them in the best way possible.”

“Pot, kettle.” He had his arms folded across his chest. Quite as determined to win as ever.

“Alright, alright,” Lydia was laughing; he was petulant and stubbornly sexy all at once; which, theoretically, shouldn’t be possible. Yet here she was, and here he was: The great Roger Taylor, a debtor to a fault. Lucky he’s so intriguingly beautiful, she thought.

“We need to go back in and find them.” He held a hand out to her, flashing his smile at her.

“I’m ready for round two whenever you are, Rog.”

“I’m always ready, Lydia; you’ll learn.”

“As if you could teach me anything.”

“I’ll take that bet,” He was grinning as if he knew a secret she didn’t. She took his hand, sure he knew every secret everyone ever had, and they made their way back to Garden Lodge.

“Who do you think has them?” She asked as they passed through Jim’s spectacular garden once more.

“Deacy,” he said venomously. “Ever since ‘I’m in Love with My Car’ its been his favorite prank.”

Lydia did the math in her head, “Wait,” she said, “Deacy has been playing this particular prank on you for six years?”

“Yes,”

“And you’re still falling for it?”

Roger stopped and looked at her, his expression irritated and sullen.

“Oh, please! I can tell you’re faking it.”

Roger started laughing, unable to keep himself from holding it in any longer. Lydia giggled with him, surprised how someone so cunning could also be so trusting and compassionate towards his friends.

“Let’s keep it up, love.” He said smirking at her, as they continued their way through the large home. Most of the guests had vanished into bedrooms, fallen asleep on random sofas–if they were lucky, or gone home for the night.

They stopped outside Freddie and Jim’s bedroom, determined to go all the way if necessary.

“Knock first,” Lydia suggested. She had a hunch whoever was still in there might like the warning.

Rolling his eyes, Roger Taylor knocked on the door.

Lydia recognized it as the drum line of “Get Down Make Love.” Uncanny, she thought, that mind of his.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back chat, back chat…

You heard a series of knocks on the door. Something about the rhythm seemed familiar to you, but you couldn’t quite place it. There was an uncanny feeling in your heart it was a Queen song. You were good at recalling music at the drop of a hat, so you were troubled by your inability to remember this particular song. The thoughtfully cross look on your face made Deacy laugh lightly to himself.

“I believe it’s ‘Get Down, Make Love.’” The tone of his voice betrayed his inner desires to do just that. He gave you a quick but deep kiss, and instead of chancing anymore contact for fear of not being able to stop himself, he stood, smiling reassuringly down at you before turning towards the door. “Let’s see how good their offer to join is, shall we?” He danced his way over to the door, purely for your viewing pleasure, and the absolute joy it brought him to move with any beat.

“Come on, I haven’t got all bloody night!” It was Roger’s typical unbridled yell; he’d know it anywhere, be able to pick it out of any lineup, and would make it his default alarm if he could.

“Why am I not surprised?” Deacy said as he opened the door.

“Why am I so surprised to find you two here?” Roger said eyeing you and Deacy up. He took in your re-tied dress, messy hair, and Deacy’s creased button-down. A seedy grin spread across Roger’s face, his eyebrows arched, and, like the siren he was, he entered the room as if he owned it.

“Maybe because you assume you’re the only person capable of having a spot of fun.” Deacy questioned cunningly.

“A spot of fun?” Roger sounded personally insulted. “God, Deacy, if you’re calling it that no wonder you never get laid. Ooh baby put your spot of fun in me…” Roger moaned exaggeratedly while sinking into an armchair.

Roger was the only one laughing.

“What? Can’t you take a joke?” He crossed his legs, waiting, trying to see if his charm would win the room or not.

“I can take a lot more than you think, Rog.” Deacy challenged pointedly; sometimes standing up to Roger was the easiest way to cool him down. Agreeing with him tended to make him confused and more upset than before. Agreeing with him usually led to a fight about why anyone would outright agree with him in the first place. Roger made it near impossible for anyone to predict his tactics, which made him a deadly debater; he’d just as soon win a fight than be right. If you were friends with Roger, it was just something you got used to. Competition frequently makes us blind to even our best friendships.

“You wanna bet?” Roger’s smile was intensely charismatic, yet slightly manic, as if anything from this point on could happen, and no one would be able to predict what exactly it could be; this was his favorite game. The purpose of his visit, was quite lost to him at this point.

“I don’t need to prove myself to you.” Deacy said steadily, factually. He wasn’t the kind of man who thought about others or indeed what they thought of him. Life was hard enough already without constantly considering what people thought about you. “Why strive to prove something that is already a fact.”

There was a silence mingled with new resentments and unsettled arguments you had sensed earlier in the evening. You and Lydia made eye contact; she looked somewhat spent and concerned. She leaned up against the door frame, clearly wanting to be anywhere else. You noticed her modified dress and wearing of Roger’s rainbow black blazer. You were certain they had had sex. Bonds had been made here, sides chosen by earlier encounters that would influence this approaching argument. Lydia would be predisposed to take Roger’s side and you Deacy’s. This might even be expected without question. However, whatever these famous men had to fight about, it wasn’t really any of your business; the notion of being dragged into it was surprisingly unattractive to you. You hoped they’d leave you and Lydia out of it, or it would have to be made clear whatever public tiff they were about to have would have nothing to do with you. It was a hard line you were willing to draw if need be.

“You really want to do this here and now?” Deacy gestured to you, then to Lydia; trying to remind Roger two women they both cared about were standing in the room with them.

“Oh, I’m not afraid of an audience.” Roger bit back, “In fact, I prefer one.” He was wolfishly charming and as deadly as one. Part of his charm was the innate danger he seemed to radiate; you didn’t think he was capable of hurting a person, no, it was a different kind of danger and suspense altogether; he was unknowable, unpredictable, and would do almost anything to win. He ran a hand through his blond hair, smiling his flashiest, most intimidatingly seductive smile at Deacy. 

Deacy, a man with every trick up his sleeve, took an elegantly firm stance and slowly, deliberately crossed his arms over his chest, swung one leg behind the other, and leaned up against the closest greco-roman column like a model waiting for his shoot to begin.

“Well, Meddows, I’m waiting.” Deacy buffed his nails on his lapel. “Come out with it. Whatever you’ve been waiting to say to me all night, I’m ready for you to get it off your chest.”

“Are you though?” Roger said, closing the distance between him and Deacy in calculated saunters of his always ready for action hips. “Because if you really were ready to play with the adults, mate, you’d go ahead and shaft this…record idea of yours before it starts causing problems among the band–more than it already has.”

“The problems here aren’t because of the record. The problems existed before the record.” Deacy explained hastily. “It’s not my record; it’s our record together. It’s Queen’s record.”

“It is too your bloody record! Brass sections and fucking club music has John Richard Deacon written all over it; you think Bri sounds like that? You think it’s his ideas going into this album? Please! Be real. He’s just too nice to say anything.”

Deacy sighed angrily, “Listen, Freddie likes it.”

“You and Freddie are forming some kind of Chinese wall between us. Some blockade so we have to pick sides.”

“He thinks it’s worth trying. He wants to experiment. He wants to grow. He wants what’s best for Queen. You and Brian want to go another way; it isn’t the end of the world like you’re making it out to be. There must be a comprise here; we’ve done it before.”

“And what? ‘Staying Power’ or whatever it’s called is what’s best for Queen? Fucking ‘Body Language’? Please. Spare me—that’s not us. Our fans will laugh at us.”

“Roger, that is us. That’s what Queen has always been.”

“Disco trash?”

“A chameleon.”

“You don’t have to be involved in those songs if you don’t like them.” Deacy said simply, washing his hands of the murky situation.

“I’m as much a part of Queen as you are; you have no power over my place here. Queen is my band, too. Brian and I deserve a bloody say in what goes on in the band we started.”

“Do you ever not talk back, Roger?” Deacy asked irritably, “Can you ever for a second not analyze what I say? As if you know better than I do about what comes out of my mouth?”

“Oh, because you never place anything between the lines of what you say, Deacy? Because you never talk in innuendos? You always say what you mean?” Roger was making a rather showy production of laughing at Deacy, “Nothing genuine ever comes out of your mouth, there’s always a hidden meaning. Always.”

“At least I don’t have your ungodly temper.”

“Oh, believe you me there is nothing not Godly about my temper.” Roger corrected him with a vainglorious wave of his hands.

“Oh, we are all well aware of that. Would you like me to get you a TV to throw off the balcony? Would that help you prove your point?”

“I’d rather throw you off the balcony, mate.”

“Try me.”

“You think you could take me?”

“You’re going to far, Rog.” Deacy said, defiantly.

“I haven’t even begun to fight; this is all just foreplay.” Roger was grinning once more.

“Come off it,” Deacy sighed tiredly.

Roger shrugged, “Anything is foreplay if you try hard enough.”

“If you’re done measuring your dicks in front of the ladies, might I suggest you zip up your pants, unless you intend to do something with them to resolve all this tension, darlings?” Freddie stood in the doorway with Jim.

“Besides, there really isn’t a need for the old measuring of the dicks scenario. We all know I have the biggest cock in the room.” Jim smirked kindly and knowingly at the assembled group. You weren’t sure if Jim meant Freddie or indeed his own penis. You had a suspicion he meant both.

“You wish.” Roger said, his voice somewhat lighter and less serious than it had been during the heat of the argument.

“What on earth is all of this about?” Freddie asked you.

“Seems to be a dispute about your next record?” You inquired politely.

Freddie rolled his eyes. “Friends, this isn’t the time or the place. There’s been alcohol, and mating, and too many emotions to have a beneficial conversation about the record. Really, you’re doing more harm than good here.”

“I’m disappointed in all of you.” Jim snapped; when he was angry, his Irish dialect really came through, making you smile despite his wise words. “You’re dragging yourselves through the mud to prove some point that won’t even matter a year from now when the record is completed. You love each other; that’s all that matters, here. And you’re forgetting it for some petty dispute about tracks and sounds and it’s disheartening to witness, isn’t it, ladies? You’re Queen. You’re trying to rule together; the only reason you’re fighting so hard is because you care about your work and each other–don’t shake your head at me, Rog, I’ll gladly take any excuse to thump you. Don’t ruin what you have over a couple songs. And certainly don’t use the drama to show off in front of our new friends.” Jim gestured to you and Lydia.

Moved by his words, you decided to chime in. “Jim is right. I don’t want to be part of this melodramatic pissing match between two people I respect and like, thank you very much. I don’t want to be used to make a point in some grudge match. I’m not a pawn for sale.” You said from the bed.

“Nor am I.” Lydia said crossing over to you. “In fact, it’s all rather boring, if you ask me. If you can’t find some way to resolve this petty argument, we will be leaving. Without you.”

You stood up and took Lydia’s arm. You looked to Deacy, curious how he’d react to your drawing such a firm boundary so early on in your courtship.

Deacy’s eyes were heavy with raging storm clouds. Mixed emotions were passing through his gray-green eyes. He wanted to prove to Roger he was wrong. When such a feat was accomplished, it was worth the struggle to see him defeated. It was a rare sight. Deacy more than anything wanted Queen to explore what the world of music had to offer, and–most importantly–to do It together. In fact, the only way to do it in his mind was to do it together. This was an obstacle. They had reached a creative stalemate, and it was partially his fault.

Deacy didn’t want to open his life up to you in this overtly public way. He wanted to ease you into the joys and hardships of the band without alarming you to the drama of stardom. Most of the arguments were harmless, lots of flash with little harm. They were used to it, but to outsiders it looked deadly. Every member of Queen was fantastically different with massive egos, vast creativity, and unique options about songs and songwriting. Exposing you tonight to the latest issues among the band wasn’t what he wanted. Sure, they fought; they were family. However, because they were family, that meant they also loved each other, would do anything for each other, and also had the best arguments of anyone around; Roger suggested once they should sell tickets to the fights and not the concerts.

When you really know someone intimately you know just how to push their buttons. It can be as dangerous as it is exciting. And this fight, by no means nice, was certainly tame when compared to most. He knew Jim was right, too. They should not be airing band issues in front of guests, indeed, in front of anyone not in the band. Miami would have a field day when he found out they had had a public blow out in front of two relative strangers.

Deacy swallowed hard. “Roger, I shouldn’t have picked a fight tonight. I know we all have different views about our direction, but I know we can figure it out together.”

Roger was glaring at the floor. “I suppose I don’t really want to throw you off the balcony. I was pissed, mate.”

Freddie looked at Jim, who nodded exhaustively, “It’ll do for now.”

“Now, what are you doing back here?” Freddie asked Roger.

“Oh, very funny. I know one of you has my keys. Give them back, Deacy.”

Deacy walked over to you, just to be nearer to you. “I don’t have them, Rog.”

“Look—I know we already had a fight tonight and your ego can’t handle losing twice in one night, so—“

“Here,” Jim said, removing the keys from his pants pocket. “I took them.”

Deacy snapped his eyes onto Jim; almost everyone in this room knew Deacy had taken Roger’s keys earlier in the night. Why was Jim covering for him? Perhaps, he knew it would benefit the situation the most?

Roger reached for his keys, and Jim passed them along.

“Now, I’m going to need you all to get out of my room; I need to make love to my husband and I’d prefer to not have an audience.” Jim started ushering everyone out of the bedroom. “Y/N, I’ll see you later tomorrow? Well,” Jim checked his watch, “later today, technically?”

“Oh yes! I’ll meet you back here around noon?”

“Perfection, just like you.” Jim closed the door on the wild bunch.

“I swear, Rog is the most dramatic person in the world.” Freddie said, taking Jim’s hand in his.

“Speak for yourself, Mr. Mercury; Roger wasn’t even the third most dramatic person in this room.”

Freddie laughed, pulling Jim into a kiss that lasted the rest of the night.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Freddie discuss matches; Deacy and reader contemplate real life vs fantasy.

Freddie and Jim were doing their best to focus on each other and not the sounds coming from the other side of the ornate gold-leafed door. The people weren’t arguing anymore, thank goodness. The voices weren’t even heated, muffled at most, but they were present and relentless. Jim had well-founded suspicions Roger was to blame for the lingering problem of the loiterers in the hallway. Roger was a snarling charmer; at least, Jim thought, if you stopped listening to the words coming out of Rog’s maw, he was at least exceedingly pleasing to gaze at. Roger was fire: pretty to behold, but would burn you and like it.

However, tonight, right now, the company in the hall and the house were not what either man in the bedroom cared about. The world could be aflame at this very moment, World War Three could have started suddenly, and Freddie and Jim wouldn’t care about anything but their shared admiration and decadence.

They were still fully clothed; well, Jim thought, Freddie hadn’t been fully clothed all night, much to both of their mutual enjoyments. Their kisses weren’t shy, but each joining of their lips was excessively slow. Each kiss emphasized care and tender longing. Each kiss mounted passions on top of passions. That thing called time ceased to exist. They were making their own sense of time now, more than contented to make every moment count. It was a love defined by equality of needs and wants gained through trials deeply personal and fundamental to them both. What they were as a couple was who they were individually. And when once it seemed their words were incompatible, that had proved a false fear, and was long buried in the past. They were the couple everyone was envious of and simultaneously endlessly overjoyed for; Freddie considered it the best of both worlds.

“Was the party successful?” Freddie asked, coming up for air between kisses. He traced Jim’s mustache, wanting to coax an answer out of him. Freddie’s parties were legendary and legion. He wanted each to have a special flare and theme, never to repeat himself or be disappointing to his guests. He might enjoy a more banal life these days, but when he put on his face and threw a party, he would embrace the madness and become the keen spirit of the festivities himself. Carefully intuitive he would be the picture of the perfect host, and when the party ended, pleasantly spent from a successful night, the only thing he wanted besides a restful night’s sleep past whatever hangover would occur, would be Jim’s honest review of the night.

“It was spectacular, angel.” Jim said earnestly, running a hand down Freddie’s thigh, and back up and down again. Over and over.

“You really think so?” Freddie sounded hopeful, like a child asking for approval from someone hard to impress.

“It was Kubla Khan-esque, Xanadu, Babylon and all that…” Jim wrapped his arms around Freddie, pulling him onto the bed, other pleasures in mind than the pleasures of their many guests. With the elegance only practice and supreme compatibility can bring, they effortlessly laid down, mixing limbs while tugging at clothes, never fully separating from touch, from kissing, from each other. It was the perfect combination of spontaneity and mastered choreography.

Freddie, however, not one to be diverted from any task, between increasingly longer embraces and the unbuttoning of Jim’s shirt, he moaned, “No, I meant the matches.”

Jim positioned himself on top of Freddie, and started undoing the button-up fly of his pristinely white hot pants. He was equally interested, perhaps against his will at the moment, in the unsuspecting matches that had been made that night between Y/N and Deacy and Roger and Lydia.

“I like them as people,” Jim said pensively, yet not tellingly. His attention was completely divided now between his steadfast desire to fuck his husband and to discuss the matches, as Freddie had called them. What indeed would come of them? The last time that poor John Deacon had been in a long-term relationship he has gotten his ponderously hopeful heart completely eviscerated. He, Freddie, Roger, and Brian had helped pick the flayed pieces of John’s heart up for months; even now, Jim wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to open up to another person again. And speaking of Roger, even when Roger claimed to be in a monogamous relationship, that never proved to be the full, unyielding truth. Roger, more or less, did precisely what he wanted and little else. Furthermore, as for the women? Well, Jim had liked Y/N and Lydia from the start, and he held strongly to first impressions. His first impression of Freddie has been quite impressive and innovatively inappropriate. But that was a story for another time, thought Jim.

Freddie, taking a disproportionate amount of time unbuttoning each button, each slip of fabric was a whisper of seduction, sighed, “You don’t sound so sure, darling.” At the last button he stopped, and he waggled his eyebrows at Jim.

Jim laughed, leading Freddie into a longer kiss, not wanting to stop. “We don’t know much about those perplexing women; beautiful and witty yes, but are they up to the task? And our very own Roger ‘loose cannon’ Taylor isn’t the easiest man to live with—not that I’d know from personal experience.”

Smiling at the sound of Jim’s lyrical voice, Freddie unbuttoned the final button. “Yes, we must grill Bri about that particular adventure.”

“Yeehaw,” Jim agreed. “And John is…” Jim’s voice tapered off as Freddie started stroking his cock through the extraordinary navy trousers.

“International man of mystery?” Freddie offered, only halfheartedly trying to jog Jim’s memory as to the original train of thought of their discourse. There was no pleasure equal to giving mind-erasing ecstasy to your lover. This was his favorite benign game: turning Jim on mid-conversation and seeing how long he could maintain his composure and concentration before giving in completely to him.

“International might be going too far.” Jim laughed, his brown eyes shrewd with lasciviousness. He sighed, slipping more and more with each passing second into a state of pending oneness with his beloved husband. Becoming markedly serious, he said, “I don’t want to talk about Roger or Deacy right now. In fact, any words said from this moment on that aren’t strictly dirty will be ignored.”

Freddie, grinning with a fantastically sexy wink, removed Jim’s flannel shirt and started unzipping Jim’s pants. He paused, staring into his husband’s eyes. This particular pair of pants held a poignant place in their hearts. They were sacrosanct, and always would be.

“I love you, Jim Hutton.”

“I love you, Freddie Mercury.”

You, Lydia, John Deacon, and Roger Taylor stood awkwardly in the hallway outside the bedroom of Jim and Freddie. You weren’t quite sure what to say to get the party moving on; you didn’t necessarily want to be apart from Deacy, but you also weren’t sure you wanted to stay here any longer. The party, the night, the festivities had moved on towards slumber, and you felt exhausted. This night had been wild and draining, though draining in mostly good ways, you so desired a lengthy sleep in your own bed to recover and ponder.

Deacy was trying to make eye contact with you, concerned something had changed for you both. You flicked your eyes on to his suddenly, and he met your gaze with a piercing stare quite intended to read your mind. He felt renewed security in your shared gaze. Something about how you looked at him made him feel sublime, unique, interesting.

“Shall we go?” He asked. There was something hidden in the question, you were sure; maybe Roger was right about his duplicitous talk.

“Yes,” you said simply.

“Well, we’re leaving too.” Roger said, as eager to get a move on as he was to be the center of attention. He took Lydia’s hand in his, and tugged her along. She waved at you wondering if you were thinking what she was.

You were sharing the same thought, though before you could voice it, Deacy offered you his arm. This small gesture evacuated every other thought from your mind. It was gallant and possessive, and you liked it. He might always be two things at once, but that was his charm, his dangerous allure that you thought would always keep you guessing, always on your toes, never sure exactly what he was thinking or meaning to say. It was that paradox from earlier in the night again; for he was entirely genuine as well as being deliberately unknowable. You took his arm in yours and felt truly warm and safe; there was a finality to the action: you belonged to him, and him to you. Ridiculous, you thought; you had just met. You needed to stop thinking such stupid things like that. He was a rock-star; this was a life you would never have, maybe one you’d dream to have, but the odds were astronomical. As astronomical as sharing all those intimate moments with Deacy tonight were, perhaps…

What were the odds of falling in love, you questioned. Not just with Deacy, but at all? Surely, falling in love wasn’t just some one-sided phenomenon; it had to be shared to be real love. Pop culture wants us to believe in selfless, one-sided, self-sacrificial love is where it’s at, but that isn’t very realistic, you thought. Not entirely healthy, either; you had been there before. Sacrificing yourself on the pyre for love you thought was pure and reciprocal only to find it wasn’t. That kind of falling combustion can be devastating. Love had to be reciprocal entirely, not uncertain, and committed. You wanted none of the half-love of yore anymore. Either full dedication between two souls in passionate love with each other, fully engrossed in the meaning and profundity of their combined lives together, or you wanted nothing at all. All or nothing. Magic or nothing. This was a pact you and Lydia had made recently. One you intended to hold each other to come hell or high water, some snipers in the night, and lions at your door. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was worth it to not compromise what you needed and wanted at the behest of someone else. You wondered if Deacy would be up to the task?

Walking arm in arm, you let John Deacon lead you through the house to the front door. “May I escort you home?” He asked a little too casually.

You giggled rolling your eyes up at him. Just as you figured, he had a shy smile on his face, though you knew better; there was nothing bashful about that grin.

He was slightly taken aback; had you cracked his code already? Maybe Roger was right, he thought. His expression softened into a muted sincerity, and melted into the hidden desires underneath his earlier question.

“Well, escort me home, you may, though there will be no other kinds of escorting.” You said putting on a prim accent, “Not tonight, at least; I’m a lady.”

“Indeed,” he said, trying not to laugh, recalling just how lady-like you had been orgasming in his grasp. He licked his lips, and he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “you want to be wooed, my fair lady?”

“Stop,” you said, laughing lightly and hitting his arm ineffectually, “You’re making me wet, and I just can’t handle another round tonight.”

“Oh, I think we’re up to the task, but I’ll defer to your wishes, always.”

“You’re too much for me, John Deacon.”

“May I quote you on that?”

You both laughed, walking through the front door. You saw a sleepy valet sitting and reading a magazine. Deacy reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip, and passed it to the valet. He took the slip and grabbed a set of keys saying he’d return in a couple of minutes with Deacy’s Mercedes.

“A Mercedes?” You questioned.

“Yes; what? Classier than you expected?”

“Everything about you is a surprise.” You hummed. “What color?” That was the extent of your car conversation capabilities.

“I think the green one.”

“The green one, you think?”

He shrugged at you, embarrassed in the late moonlight. He had money, more money than he knew what to do with; his expenses weren’t plentiful, and he didn’t have a family, or a partner like Freddie. He had no one to provide for.

No one to provide for.

This idea frequently made him bizarrely solemn. It always left a pit in his stomach, made him feel quite hollow, and confusingly guilty. He could, given the right circumstances, give so much to someone else. If that person would ever come along, he thought. He looked at your face, then, studying it closely. Looking for some hidden hint he was on the right path.

Fire and ice shone in those grey-green eyes of his. He was mesmerizing and chaotic, you thought. Deadly, like Roger, but you sensed there wasn’t a temper hiding under his shrouded mystery, but something else altogether.

The valet returned with a green Mercedes-Benz. The top was down, and you had a hard time imagining someone so mischievous driving something so, well, cool. Deacy tipped the driver, and traded spots with him. The valet opened your car door, and closed it behind you.

“Thank you,” you said to him. He waved you both off, clearing you to go.

Deacy put the car into gear and slowly drove away from Garden Lodge. Looking at him, his curly auburn hair dancing in the wind, the full beauty of his person unfurled itself to you in a way previously unseen. Something about him relaxed entirely the second you had step foot outside the party. He was at ease, and any weight of “being on” for the party had evaporated into the night air. His red necktie was flapping behind him like a scarf. You hated to admit it, but damn, he was the coolest person you had ever met. You laughed, thinking how disappointed Roger would be to hear you say that.

“What?” Deacy asked, responding to your laugh with one of his own.

“I just cannot believe that I am here with you. I have to keep reminding myself it’s real.”

“I assure you,” Deacy said, looking at you briefly, “this is no fantasy, Y/N.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Deacon and reader get a feel for an automobile; Deacy wishes the night would last forever.

After expressing your address, you found yourself lost in thought, unable to look away from John Deacon. Lucky for you, considering he wasn’t in a position to get away from your gaze. He particularly enjoyed the attention and had no desire to escape your attentions, however. Deacy’s beauty was under-appreciated, you thought. His hair, quite honestly resisted gravity and all logic. You wondered if he liked his hair color, its texture, its style; he seemed to change his look enough, so it was hard to know for sure. This was indicative of a person who cared about either what others thought or took pride in themselves, or were insecure. Not necessarily bad characteristics. You thought people who genuinely didn’t care what others thought were liars outright. Though, someone who took care in how they looked for reasons of self-empowerment was admirable. And, as for feeling insecure, well, you knew exactly what that was like.

Would it be easier to just voice all these thoughts, rather than keeping them silent, and looking for hints? Hoping he’d drop a clue here or there to let you know what was on his mind? Was this disingenuous? You couldn’t decide. When was too early to ask everything you wanted to know about a person? Would it scare them away? You didn’t want to scare him away. And you had just met tonight. Perhaps it was better to stay silent.

You contemplated his cheekbones. Also underrated. They were not overly pointy cheekbones, more joyous than anything else. You found them at their best when he was smiling or laughing; the way the light glinted off them when he laughed at something you said, grinning at the attention, it made his face glow with excited passion and keen interest. And they weren’t better than yours, which made you feel better about yourself in a self-loathing insecure way you hated.

What did it mean to be in a relationship when you were insecure, you thought? Was there a such thing as a person who wasn’t insecure? Especially at the start of dating? So much goes unsaid, so much you become blind to, there’s so much you willfully ignore. What does it mean to be honest in a relationship? Is it possible? You thought so, but, then again, here you were with a man you thoroughly enjoyed and you couldn’t even bring yourself to voice your concerns, questions, and desires. You wanted to be blunt, unabashed, and just say what was on your mind, but you didn’t know how to start.

So, you kept looking at him, unashamed at least in the knowledge you had a certain right to gaze at a man who had made you climax during your first sexual encounter together.

Most women, you found, lied about their ability to orgasm. It was a telling sign between someone younger and older; younger women tended to brag about their ability to cum every single time during sex with a man, yet the man never seems to use more than his dick. This was not a common recipe for a woman’s orgasm. Older women tended to be a bit more frank and realistic when it came to sex. And though you were by no means near 30, you also weren’t as close to 20 as you had once been. Deacy, an older man, certainly understood the key to a woman’s orgasm usually has nothing to do his dick and had everything to do with her mind. This made him, in your mind, a considerate and fantastic lover. You couldn’t wait to sample more.

But you would wait. That was part of the game for you. And you knew well enough it was part of the game for him, too. Deacy wanted a woman who would play the game, and it was a game you lived for. You wondered how long it would take to reach peak sexual chemistry together, and what it would feel like the first time you archived your orgasms at the same time. You didn’t know much about what he liked himself. What you had gathered from him at your first encounter was that he enjoyed a light form of power exchange that excited you in ways you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t always easy to find someone who instinctively knew what you wanted, whom you were compatible with regarding what you liked in the bedroom, and who cared more about your pleasure than his own. Maybe that last part wasn’t entirely accurate. What had he said right after? He implied he had had as much pleasure as you had had simply by giving you pleasure, or witnessing your pleasure. No one ever did anything selflessly in bed; there was always a currency exchange occurring. As long as the foundation was reciprocity, everything ran like clockwork. You certainly wanted to find out more about him and his desires. To do that, however, you’d have to find a way past your insecure mouth and say something. You wished sex was as easy to discuss with a new partner as cats or dogs? Chinese or Italian food?

John Deacon wanted to know everything about you. He wondered what your life was like. When did you wake up in the morning? What did you look like? You snored, he thought, clutching the wheel tighter than necessary. It was a scrap of information he was clinging to in order to convince himself he really knew you so he didn’t feel so silly about how deeply his feelings for you were already growing. Was he being a fool, he pondered? At almost 32 he definitely thought he had a good grasp on who he was and what he wanted, maybe for the first time in his life. He was a man with pretty clear dual natures. The silent and sassy rock-star, who could command the attention of hundreds of fans with the plucking of a few strings. Then there was the surly outcast who felt alone in a room full of people, felt categorically misunderstood by half the people he met, and wanted desperately to make a connection with someone who saw this, acknowledged it, and was willing to live with it and be his equal partner in it. One side was ultimately dominate and the other inherently, shyly confident and determined to be who he was and fuck the rest; but which was which? Who would get that constant internal power struggle, and would anyone want to put up with the game of it all? Were you that person? Did you already understand it?

He couldn’t fully tell. You had stood up for yourself during that horrid fight with Roger, which was surprising and a huge relief. Deacy didn’t want some person who couldn’t speak her mind. It seemed that even if you didn’t always say what was on your mind, you were at least capable of doing it. Why didn’t you more often, he questioned? You had also been more than willing to play during sex; people were more genuinely themselves during sex than any other time you’d see them. So, he figured that was a good indication of who you were, of the person you tried so hard to keep hidden away. Deacy thought the real you was hidden, maybe even in the same why he hid himself; out of necessity. Though why you felt you had to do this, he had no idea. You were insecure and smart and so shockingly tender while maintaining a steel wall around your inner heart. A paradox, like himself, he thought.

What was it is like to be as sexually explicit and upfront as Roger, Deacy wondered? He was the most honest person Deacy he ever met. Sure, Brian was honest and true, but he didn’t always reveal everything about himself; Roger did and to a fault. You always knew what you were getting with Roger, and Deacy admired that. Sure he was an annoying twat, but he was also an especially true friend because of that special no holds barred brand of honesty. Roger was so comfortable regarding his sexual desires and romantic interests, he’d work it into everyday conversations. Nothing would get in the way of Roger getting what he wanted. Deacy, frequently, was his own worst enemy in this respect. He tried to spare his romantic partners from painful truths or criticisms or awkwardness; this was an issue, and had proven to be a contributing reason why many of his past relationships had ended. Paradoxically, he figured sparing his partners pain would keep them safe, happy, and willing to stay. To them, however, it seemed that he was being dishonest, two-faced, and–worst of all–mistrusting of them. Roger, even though he seemed instinctively reluctant to enter a lasting, permanent relationship, never had an issue with his honesty, because no one ever stayed around long enough to see it as a fault. Deacy wasn’t even so sure it would end up being a fault for Roger—he was almost too charming to have his faults noticed. What would it be like to have the security and freedom of being honest in a relationship? To have a partner who wanted honesty, and could stand it, and not falter because of it? Most people claimed to want that level of biting honesty, but never really ended up treasuring it in the end. Maybe it was impossible to win, he thought.

Could you be the one I’ve been searching for, Y/N? Deacy couldn’t stop thinking this one thought. Were you it? Could you handle me? Could you know me, and let me know you? Inside and out?

You were staring at his lips and hands, back and forth, you allowed your eyes to flick to them at your leisure. His fingers were so long, and probably made him the proficient musician he was. His smile was wide and his lips were so captivating; full and like his eyes easy to sparkle. His hands had been all over your body tonight, almost inside you; close to penetration but never quite there. He was such a tease, but delivered the goods in the end in his own way. He wanted to give you everything while keeping a secret for himself. His vulnerability was guarded.

Why weren’t you talking? Say something? Here you are, together, alone. Take your chance. Now or never.

“Have you always been a paradox, John Deacon?” You asked, tracing shapes on his knee.

“Yes, I have. It isn’t easy to put up with, I realize.” John said sheepishly. “If I can’t keep something for myself I feel…invisible. Empty. Unsure.”

“Can you ever completely know a person?” You wondered aloud.

“I would say no. A person could get close to it, if you’re very lucky and very transparent. You’d have to trust each other. I find some blasted way to be quite close, quite vulnerable.”

“Hard conditions to achieve.” You reasoned.

“Yes, but not impossible.”

You took a deep breath and said, “I don’t want to do this if I have to hide myself from you.”

He looked at you as long as he could spare while driving. Your green eyes met his grey ones. It was a moment of truth, loud and undeniable. Would he cross the Rubicon with you, or stay stranded on the other side? 

You continued, “I’ve done that before. Made that mistake before. It’s only ever made my relationships fail. I won’t do it again. I need to be in the driver’s seat, active in my own life. I don’t want to be the only one in charge; I want dual driver’s seats, if that makes sense?”

“Roger would like that.” Deacy laughed, noticing his palms were sweating.

“Would you like that? Do you like that?” You decided to push him for an answer. If you were gonna lay your cards on the table and ask the hard questions, you deserved the same in return.

“I do. I want you to be open with me. Like you are now. You’ve been holding back all night, whether because of me or something in you, I’m not sure. I want you to feel like you can tell me everything. And I want you to actually do it.”

“Would you be able to do the same for me? Be just as upfront, always?”

“Isn’t ‘always’ a fallacy?”

“Isn’t that something someone says when they want permission to lie?”

He laughed in surprise and joyful fascination at your honesty. “I will be myself with you to the best of my abilities. I will share the truth with you, I will be honest; I cannot promise I’ll be fair, or entirely likable or conventionally nice.”

“You are nice, John.”

“Bri says I’m the only person he knows who can destroy someone in two sentences or less.”

“You have bite.”

“Is that a request?” He waggled his eyebrows at you.

“It might be. I have a fair amount of bite, too.”

“Is that a warning?”

“It might be.”

You both laughed. There was a silence, though not uncomfortable.

“I fear who I am is designed around who I am in public and who I am in private, and I dread that I can no longer distinguish between them.”

“Is this a rare moment of your mask slipping to the side?”

“It might be.” He smiled. You were playing with each other now, but it was more than that; he was testing the waters, seeing if he could scare you away in a more subtle way than the fight with Roger had been. “I’m not sure which one is the real me anymore.”

“I’d hazard a guess it’s a bit more complicated than one being you and one being a lie.”

Deacy thought that was exceptionally perceptive of you. “Where do you go to university?”

“How did you know I was in school?” You asked, more curious than surprised.

“I figured you weren’t quite finished yet.”

“I’m at Oxford.”

“Studying music?”

“Yes.” You confirmed. “Why are you interested in dating someone younger?” Everyone in the world knew how old the members of Queen were.

“I’m not.” He said. There was a tone of finality to it. Your stomach dropped through the floor of the car and was probably ran over by its back tires. “I’m interested in dating someone who understands me, or who could understand me. If you were 43 instead of 22 or 23, I’d still be here, driving you home, in this moment together, negotiating our future together.”

“Good answer,” you said, able to swallow and breath again, instantly feeling better. “Do you know those moments in romantic films? Where the guy says something and the girl says something back? Then they’ll close in on the guy or the girl, but no one says anything because it’s assumed the conversation is over?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“You see, what’s on there faces is the real conversation they should be having. It’s whatever they thought when the silence starts that really says what they wanted to say more than what they actually said. Does that make sense? God, I’m not making sense.”

“It does. What you’re saying is these couples who think they’re having a heart-to-heart aren’t really. They believe they’ve had one because they said ‘I love you’ for the first time or something like that. But immediately after the conversation these people are thinking something in reaction to what was said, and because they never voice whatever those thoughts were, they’re missing the point?”

“Exactly! If they went on to voice what they were thinking right after that pronouncement, whether it’s ‘I didn’t know you thought the same, felt the same’ or ‘you’ve made me so unbelievably happy I could sing loud enough to wake the dead’ that’s the real conversation! that’s the real feelings behind the I love you. But they always skip that part. No one ever just says what they’re thinking when it matters the most. And we can’t read their minds, so we have no idea what they were thinking, and neither do their partners. It infuriates me.”

“You’ve just ruined Casablanca for me forever.”

“Let’s never be those people.”

“What the people who ruin their relationships by hiding behind their words and thinking they’re saying what they mean but aren’t?”

“Precisely. Or I get out of this car right now while we’re speeding along.”

“If you do that, I’ll have to jump out after you. I’d never hear the end of it from Roger. ‘Ruined another car,’ he’d say. ‘Shocking. You’ll do anything to keep a girl around, mate.’”

“Are you doing it already?”

“Yes,” he sighed, “And now that I’ve started I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about you. All night. From the moment I saw you, all I could do was think about you. What your name was; if you liked to dance; what you’d smell like; if you liked dogs; if you preferred winter over spring; if I wasn’t famous if you’d like me, see me, want me; it all roped back to you. Every thought I had. I couldn’t stop it from happening even if I wanted to. And I assure you, I don’t want to stop thinking about you. You lassoed me, you have me.”

“I kept thinking” you said slowly, “all night how ridiculous this was. Feeling so drawn you, wanting to know you, to figure you out, you puzzle of a man, to understand you and have you understand me. Everything you were sang to me the second you touched my hand, and I was hooked. But we had just met and I kept thinking I was insane.”

You were pulling up to your apartment. You didn’t know how you got here, but you had. “It’s that one on the right.”

“Right.” Deacy pulled over, and parked the car. “I know you said nothing else tonight, and I respect that. However, if I don’t at least see you to your door, I’ll regret it all day until I see you again.”

“Alright.” You said happily. “In the spirit of our negotiations, I have an unconventional proposition…”

“I’m listening.”

“We could try sleeping next to each other, but not sleep together. I know I’m not the best at sleeping next to someone else, but I’d like to try it again with you. If you’d like to, that is? I’d understand if you just wanted to go home and sleep in your own bed. Nothing is as good as that, but now I’m rambling. So?”

But John Deacon had removed the key from the ignition already, bewitched at the notion of holding you close; he couldn’t bear to leave you there.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t you know, honey, that love’s a game?

“You’re sure about this?” John Deacon asked you as he helped you out of his green Mercedes-Benz. Closing the door carefully behind you, he squeezed your hand to make sure you were really paying attention; this was a typical action of his, you were noticing. When he wanted to know for a fact you were hearing him, taking his words in, understanding him, he’d squeeze your hand in some pulsing rhythm known only to him. It was like a Morse code, his own secret way of asking “hey, are you listening? this is important to me.” What you loved most about the simple gesture was that instead of voicing this, he used music. What he couldn’t bring himself to say, what he kept silent, he could give voice to in song. You wondered for the first time if this was something he did in every facet of his life.

“Sure about what?” You asked, squeezing his hand back. It was your way of reminding him you hung on his every word.

“About me coming up with you.” He nodded his head towards your five story walk-up.

This felt like a loaded question, ready to shoot you in the heart if you answered wrongly. You couldn’t deny your inner fear that this was somehow still a dream; you’d go to your apartment and suddenly wake up, having dreamed the whole vivid party and people up in an attempt to not feel alone. Or, you’d send him home, and he’d never return to your life. He’d forget about you, think on your night together fondly, but never attached enough to really seek you out. How much of this could he read on your face, you pondered? You needed to say something; you noticed the silence stretching out in front of you and Deacy like this endless night had, on and on inexplicably so.

“You’re retreating again,” Deacy reminded you, “We promised each other we wouldn’t do that. I know it’ll be challenging for us both, but I can’t read your mind, Y/N.”

“You’re right; I’m sorry.” You said giving him a quick random hug. You needed the instant validation of physical contact beyond what some little hand holding could tell you. His heart was beating fast, as if he had run up those five stories leading to your apartment door. Nerves, you thought. He had them, too. Hidden deep down, maybe, his insecurities were, but there they were. “I’m afraid for this night to end.” You confided.

“How so?” Deacy asked, running his fingers up your neck, to hold your face in his hands. He wanted to make sure you were looking him in the eyes; whether to make sure you were telling the truth, or to help build the foundations of safe sharing that true vulnerability and deep intimacy needed, you weren’t sure. It was probably both, you figured. Thinking back over the night, you knew he was right. He had mentioned during the ride here you hadn’t be very forthcoming all night, and you hadn’t been. Being too afraid to speak your mind when it related to your heart had caused him to question not your interest in him, but perhaps your security of self identity and readiness to enter into a relationship. In a way, you had caused him to question the validity of his own feelings. He was insecure not about you, but about pledging his time, his heart to another person to find them lacking, ill-prepared, and petrified. He wanted, more than anything, a two-way-street, and nothing else would do; in fact, you had yourself pledged to only satisfy any romantic enterprises with reciprocity; you wanted magic, or nothing.

“Y/N,” Deacy said, staring into your olive-colored eyes, “I know we haven’t know each other for a full day yet; there’s nothing you can say to make me turn tail and run. Take a breath with me, and tell me whatever is on your mind.”

You reached up, taking one of his hands in yours, and breathed with him in unison. “I am afraid this was all some wild hallucination; I wasn’t joking when I said I had to keep reminding myself you were here with me. I fear when this night ends, you’ll return to your rock-star ways, and I’ll be here still wondering if it really happened or not.”

“Ridiculous,” He said, using the word you had been thinking all night. “You still have that string I gave you?”

“Yes, I do.” You rummaged around in the hidden pocket of your dress and pulled out the balloon string from earlier. “Though, I’m not quite sure why I have it.”

“Roger popped a balloon he asked me to hold to trick me while he made a getaway when we were playing the game.”

“Oh, which game?” You asked cheekily. “So many games seemed to have happened tonight.”

Deacy chuckled, “Indeed. Here, can I see it?”

You handed him the string. He took your hand and placed it hovering perpendicular in the air in front of you both. He began tying it around your wrist. “Okay, here’s what I can promise you: I may not always be around in person to remind you that I’m in this with you. So, I want you to use this string, as mundane as it is, to remind yourself that tonight happened, that tomorrow will happen, and the day after that will happen–together. When I can’t be here to tell you, use it to remind you it happened, that we’re happening. When you start to doubt, look down and remember how I couldn’t keep my eyes off you before we met, and how I danced across a crowded room to meet you.”

“How you threatened Roger to keep him away from me.”

“Exactly. I’d do it again, too.” Deacy said, wrapping his arms around you, “Though something tells me I won’t have to.”

“Roger and Lydia did seem to hit it off tonight, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” a look crossed his face you couldn’t quite interpret. He sighed, “Freddie and Jim are probably quite pleased with themselves about that.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” You said happy to be held and even happier to hold him. “I never knew they were such matchmakers.”

“Yes, let’s call it a hobby. It sounds nicer than gamblers.” Deacy danced out of your embrace, and kept one of your hands in his; he twirled you around, switching which hand he held of yours with great ease and panache. “Come on, let’s make our way.”

Your building was older, probably built shortly before the war; you were surprised it was still in working order, to be honest. However, you really liked its vintage feel. Something about the history of the building sang to you; it had seen things you hadn’t and if you listened hard enough, maybe it would be able to communicate all of its secrets to you. The once cornflower blue tiles of the lobby were grimy, lacking their original luster; this made you like them even more, if you were being honest. The ceiling was some ornate-looking tin tiling that was probably incredibly cheap, while looking somewhat posh. It was the kind of lobby that never seemed to have enough lighting; it had the ambiance of a noir spy flick, and boy were you a sucker for it. Almost as much of a sucker you were for John Deacon and Queen. You put a hand on the railing of the staircase, walked up a couple steps until you were taller than him, and turned back to Deacy, extending the hand tied with the balloon string.

“All the way up,” You said, waggling your eyebrows at him.

“All the way?” He asked as he looked up past you towards the spirals above.

“All the way. Afraid?” You questioned playfully.

“Never,” He lied. “Though I’m sure we can find a way to make it interesting…” His voice trailed off as he placed a hand on one of your knees, instead of taking your hand. He rubbed the crease in your skin slowly, trying to see if you were ticklish. When you didn’t giggle at the touch, he kept moving his hand up your leg, up the back of your thigh. At his rate, you thought, you’d never make it up the first flight.

Your breathing was increasing with hurried and unexpected excitement. As his hands, both now, reached up past your thighs and traveled around the circumference of your ass, you knew if you didn’t act fast you’d be fucking on this staircase. Though, you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of game this one was; everything was a game to John Deacon, and you knew you wanted to figure it out, to figure him out. You placed your hands over his, reaching behind you. You turned to look at him, and said, “Now, now, now, you’ll have to earn that, John.” You winked at him, and sped up the rest of the flight of stairs. Your heels clacked on the tiles of the staircase, and as you rounded the first corner, you turned back, and saw him pursuing you intently and fast.

“Stop,” he said; not harshly, but definitely with a touch of sophisticated command.

You stopped dead in your tracks, one foot on the next staircase, waiting.

“For every flight we pass, you’ll need to pay a fee.” He said simply.

“A fee?” You asked, instantly getting wetter.

“A fee.”

“And what do you intend to pay me in return?”

“Oh, I think you’ll enjoy your fee sufficiently enough to stand for my payment as well.”

“Oh?” You asked, repeating his quite, confident tone. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“I swear, your virtue will remain intact.” He held up a hand to seal the bargain.

“Oh, my virtue hasn’t been intact for years.”

He smiled knowingly, “I mean we won’t have sex, per your request of the night.”

You nodded, waiting.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t have fun while we’re at it, though?”

You didn’t really want to resist him, and with the wetness expanding down your inner thighs, you weren’t so sure you could even convincingly pretend at this point; you wanted him, entirely.

“Do you worst, John Deacon.”

On the top of flight one, he met you, where you waited. He put his arms around the back of your neck to draw you into a kiss. Nothing was slow about this kiss; it was familiar and hungry. You’d starve to death on a diet of his kisses, you thought. You’d never have enough to be full, never get tired of his taste, always long for seconds, thirds, a whole buffet. You could get used to this. Each time he kissed your lips, he carefully, calculatingly bit your bottom lip, before opening his mouth wider until your kisses turned into tongues and moans. However, just as suddenly as it had started, he pulled away.

“My turn,” He said, and started running up the next flight of stairs. Smiling, you pursued him quickly, almost catching up to him, but not quite; it was a straightforward chasing game, and half the fun was in the chase itself.

On the second landing, you pulled him to you by the waistband of his red jeans. He came to you with little resistance. You raised one eyebrow at him, and unbuttoned and unzipped his fly. A fast flash of surprise whipped past his face, and was rapidly erased by the swift entering of your hand into his polka-dot underwear. To say you had been waiting to tease him like this all night was perhaps an understatement to your desires. Semi-hard already, he hardened posthaste. You slowly stroked his cock, shaft to head, while staring him in the eyes. He held your gaze expertly until you were quite certain he couldn’t handle it anymore; Deacy pulled you in for a kiss, which you returned, once, before removing your hand, leaving him unfinished, and with his pants down.

“How’s that for a distraction?” You were both thinking of the string; you turned around and started up the next flight.

“Not fair!” You heard Deacy say from the second story landing.

“Fairness, if I recall, wasn’t promised!” You intoned from above.

John Deacon was impressed, and totally smitten; would it be inappropriate to say so, with one’s dick out, he wondered? He didn’t want to jinx it, so he did up his jeans, tried to silence his pounding erection, and decided to follow you at an all out run. When he found the third story landing, he saw you sitting, legs spread, heels up, waiting for him. Deacy felt like he was suddenly living in Roger’s sex life, for a second, and he reached up to make sure his hair wasn’t suddenly blond and perfect; nope, still auburn and coiled. He and Roger enjoyed sharing stories together. And this encounter felt all too familiar.

“Right,” He said, “Somehow I feel like this is a trap.”

“One of your own making, then; I do believe it is your flight, technically. Do with me what you will…” You threw your head back, smiling, clearly having too much fun in the game.

Deacy moaned in expectation, and quickly met you. He laid down on top of you, snaking his hands up your back, one on the back of your neck and head as he lowered you down. One of his legs was between yours, and with it, he was rubbing vigorously at your clitoral area. Instantly, you couldn’t think of anything of but those motions and his kisses. Currently, he was kissing down your neck, speedily as if he had a mission and time limit in mind. He got to your bra, carefully slid a hand into one of the cups, and excavated the breast within. Noticing your nipple was already hard, he didn’t waste one second: he trailed his tongue around the areola in rhythmic circles, making you shiver and moan. He bit down, and sucked hypnotically at your nipple. He could feel your body tensing up with the constant simulation; you quiet moans, like fire, stirred him to the core; he craved to be inside of you; however, before any resolution could be met, he once more backed away, stood up, and bounded up the stairs.

Pulling yourself together as fast as you could, which wasn’t easy considering how turned on you were, you stood and followed him up towards the forth story landing. Finding him there, he was standing very still, gazing at you with such intensity you could have sworn he was ready to attack you. You wondered who was in control, for you surely were losing control over yourself with joy and excitement. You stood, facing him, giving him as much vigor back as he gave you. Ready for anything. You breathed as one, staring each other down.

Who would break first, you both wondered? He broke first, and you rushed to meet him. Crashing into each other, he pulled you over to the wall, and pinned you there. You took the opportunity to lick up his neck, and slowly bite back down it. Distracting him to such a point he loosened his grasp on you. You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him into a kiss. He placed his hands on your waist, and lifted you up, sliding his hands along your ass and thighs to wrap your legs around his waist. Your bodies were pressed up against each other so tightly, you reckoned light wouldn’t be able to escape through them. The magnetism of your desire would keep everything at bay. Every kiss was a furthering of that contract you had made and every kiss deepened your budding mutual feelings. He was hard against your vagina, and you were rubbing each other into a frenzy powered by pure, basic friction. Friction was sexually underrated, you thought.

You couldn’t wait to make love to him, and yet part of the fun was the waiting. It was part of the game. Deacy felt this in such a copacetic way he didn’t feel the need to voice it; he already knew you were in exacting, devoted agreement. So much so, you lightly pushed him away at the same moment he slowly back away from you. Every touch was a ration, meant to last and stave off any lingering longing.

Hand in hand, you silently ascended the last staircase. At the base of the fifth floor landing, you paused. The tiles here were lilac and saffron; the wallpaper gray and understated. “That’s mine,” You were pointing to 5B. “Two flats to each landing; we were lucky to get into this building; it’s cheaper, so a lot of students try to get in it.” You reached up to an antique lantern, in disrepair, and pulled a key out of it. “We keep a spare here, just in case.” You explained to Deacy. However, before you could use the key, the door began opening on its own.

Roger wore an amused smile; lazily tracing his lips with a finger, he flashed his shockingly blue eyes at Deacy, and said, “Well, if it isn’t our good old-fashioned lover boy.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger wants to make the speed of light out of this place; Deacy and reader share a hot space.

Roger Taylor knew what was going on here. During his thirty-some years, he had discovered the hard way just how easy it was to underestimate a man with an insanely high emotional intelligence; underestimating him tended to occur more often than he’d like to admit. He frequently wondered if it was his appearance, his high-pitched voice, or his talent that made people think he was just another pretty face, some blond model with no brain. That couldn’t be farther from the truth, and he had fought his entire life so far against that ill-assuming tide. He was shrewd. A multi-instrumental musician, songwriter, fashion icon (he’d like to think, anyway) should be well-respected among his peers. Maybe it was his temper? He was in touch with his emotions more than anyone else he knew; Freddie frequently said he was the emotional equivalent of a night at the opera. Roger couldn’t dispute this. He was proud of his emotional range and stubbornly believed his emotional prowess linked strongly to his emotional empowerment and vulnerability. For his emotional transparency was vulnerability of a very specific sort: even if he wasn’t sharing it with anyone in particular or sharing it with everyone in particular, it was still targeted, specific, and intentional openness.

For a man so deeply in tune with the emotions of the people around him and his own emotions, it was a new experience for him to find himself not united with his own current desires and his self-imposed limitations. This was causing him serious problems. Everything related to an emotional state for him. It was his core. Emotions were the road map he used to understand his own existence. Right now, he had either lost the map or torn it up in a fit of anger. His carefully created veneer of denial was crumbling. And try as he might to glue the delicate pieces back together, he was failing at every turn. Denial, an emotion like any other, was his shield. Denial protected him from what he was not ready to feel, confront, and process. As anyone who knows what it’s like to live a predominantly emotional life, it is exhausting, and safety measures, escape routes, and panic rooms must be utilized to keep the peace.

The ability to hide emotions until the appropriate time to deal with them was part of having a high emotional intelligence. Some people couldn’t read other people’s emotions to save their lives; you put a gun to Roger’s head, and he’d be able to identify the emotional ranges and feelings of anyone around him; he’d make a great foreign agent, he thought. The FBI, maybe; he could profile a bitch faster than most people took to tie their shoes; this was because of his perceptions and emotional intelligence; sure, Brain was just brilliant, but could he read a room’s emotions and play everyone in it? Probably not, Rog figured. The ability to recognize when certain emotions were right for certain situations was his wheelhouse. This didn’t mean he paid any attention to what he knew was appropriate, however. Having knowledge and using it were two vastly different things. Half of the fun was to be found in reading a room full of people, knowing what they wanted or expected, and giving them the exact opposite, giving them what they didn’t even know they wanted, and changing their minds with the swagger of his emotional charm: this was power. And it was better than any drug, and almost better than sex.

Right now, however, Roger had little control over himself and his own emotions. Reading the interior of his mind and heart, every alarm was going off in unison: FLY AWAY RUN AWAY.

This was Lydia’s fault, he angrily thought. Sure, being in touch with his emotions didn’t mean he was always honest about what he was feeling. Especially regarding love, falling in love, being in love…. No—

That’s not what’s happening here. Fuck that, he thought very loudly, trying to convince himself. Focus. But not on her—not on Lydia. Fuck. Bloody fucking fuck. Focus on Deacy and Y/N.

He placed his hands on either side of the door frame. One up higher, one down lower. He wore his too-fancy-for-the-occasion black tuxedo stripe pants, his too-dressed-down-for-the-occasion white classic tee shirt, a pair of over-worn high-tops, and what could only be a black fur coat of Lydia’s. It smelled like her, and he savored–NO NO savoring fucking nothing here. He peered at you and Deacy from behind his sepia circular prescription sunglasses. He was, essentially, too cool to be allowed. Roger Meddows Taylor was synonymous with illegal behavior. His blue eyes popped out from his tinted glasses as he surveyed the scene before him.

He effortlessly read the emotions on both of your faces. Every glance you and Deacy sent each other, every hesitant touch, every “accidentally” intentional touch, every unspoken word was a clue for Roger, and he was a bloodhound. There was a dreamy quality to your olive eyes that smacked of infatuation and confusion—no not confusion, Roger thought. It was more of an ignorance is bliss kind of emotional vacuousness he associated with early, blind love. He tried to not roll his eyes and tried desperately to not think of Lydia, with whom he was having his own blind feelings—STOP that bloody well right now. Deacy has this hopeful dewy glow that had nothing to do with sex and sweat. Pure joy, Roger thought. Pure fucking undivided, maybe even not fully registered, joy. Ah, to be young and in love—Roger banged a fist on the door frame, suddenly. His smile still stays on, whatever happens pain and fury would fuel his waning denial.

Roger saw your flushed face spark a look of concern at the quick eruption of his fist speaking what he would not give voice to yet. He continued to take in your haphazard dress and twisted tights, and Deacy’s barely zipped pants, and felt a keen sense of deja vu. We’ve already been here tonight. Get a room, he thought, he’d like to get a room with Lydia. Maybe every room. WHAT the fuck is wrong with me? He hated himself more than he hated the idea of Deacy’s new Queen record. He smashed his fist into the door frame again. Fuck. Focus. Fuck.

These details, NOT HIS EMOTIONAL DETAILS, he reminded himself, your clothing and glancing details, HOWEVER, told him a lot about you and your night. He hadn’t even had to witness it first hand, and he knew the landscape of your night like he knew every wink, every breath and beat of every time signature.

It was clear to Roger you both hadn’t actually had full on sex yet. Sure, you had experimented, licked and touched, kissed and felt, but he’d put serious money on the fact you hadn’t been penetrated and Deacy hadn’t cum. Fascinating and boring simultaneously. That’s got Deacy all over it.

He and Deacy liked games, similar flavors but completely different goals and power structures. Deacy’s was inherently equal with delaying of certain actions, while Roger favored a flat out war of equals where everyone got precisely what they wanted assuming, of course, they could negotiate it. Both had a hard time finding compatible partners because of this. It was easy to settle, especially for Roger, for a night of climaxing fun with a beauty just to feel close to somebody. Yet, it was never as fulfilling as sex with someone who wanted what you wanted too.

Lydia could negotiate her way around a room full of cats, or room full of blind people without breaking a sweat or running into anyone or setting anyone or any cat off course. She was good. Fantastic. Challenging. Formidable. Roger was a sauntering sapient, a fucking loudmouthed, dirty disaster. The denial kept slipping away from his talented grasp. God, I know we don’t talk, you tend to mess things up, but fucking help me, he thought. FOCUS.

If you and Deacy had actually had sex, he figured, you two wouldn’t be pawing at each other whenever anyone turned around or left you alone for more than a few minutes. Your and Deacy’s emotions were spilling out of your hands; he had seen it before. Fuck, he was going through it himself. Right now. In front of you and Deacy. Fuck, he thought.

“What—No self-control, mates?” He said, shaking his head at the two of you, while his own voice slightly shook, higher than normal.

“Coming from you that’s a laugh.” Deacy retorted.

Roger grinned, walking up to you. He sweetly and shamelessly planted a chaste kiss on your cheek. He turned to Deacy and mock-begrudgingly placed a kiss on his cheek. “Do try to get some sleep, children.” Leaving between to you both, he flashed a peace sign (best case scenario, worst case he was telling himself to fuck off) behind him as he walked down the stairs. Instead of his rainbow-sequin blazer, he had acquisitioned a fur coat, you recognized as Lydia’s; it was high summer, yet here he was, fur coat and all. Roger Taylor was the anomaly of a sudden blizzard smack dab in the middle of June.

The Blond God would try to control even the seasons, you thought. Maybe he already did. You couldn’t tell if his behavior had been erratic or normal, so you weren’t particularly concerned, and Deacy didn’t look worried, so you decided to let it slide and ignore it.

“I live with Lydia.” You explained to Deacy, satisfying the floating, unspoken question in the air. “And if I thought when I woke up this morning Roger Taylor and John Deacon would be in our apartment, I definitely would have done the dishes.”

Deacon laughed, kissing your cheek, “dishes are overrated.”

“Did you just claim my cheek back from Roger?”

“I did, yes.”

“Jealous?”

“I prefer possessively keen.”

“Is it okay if we do a tour later?” You asked, entering your apartment with a laugh. “I’m exhausted.”

“I’m more interested in your bedroom.” Deacy confided. “I can’t stop now that we’ve started the whole thinking out loud confiding in each other thing.”

“It’s like I’m living in my own sitcom.” You said, swerving Deacy past several room towards the very back of the apartment.

You paused at the door to your bedroom, your sanctuary. Sharing this space had always been excessively private for you. You were about to let a man into the most secret areas of your life. He’d be free to explore and witness all the hidden dreams and trinkets to which your entire existence amounted. It would make you an open book, in a sense. This was a big step. And it was happening the same night you met.

Deacy, sensing some of this on your face, said “Before I owned my own home, my bedroom was all I had. Letting someone into that space took time for me. We don’t have to go in there if you’re not ready. The sofa would be accommodating, I’m sure.”

“I’m ready. It means a lot to me, this space. Sharing it with you will be my honor. I’m just trying to remember if I tidied up before leaving for the party…”

“Well, m’lady, when you see my home I’m sure you’ll understand just how little I care about neatness.” Deacy had affected a bow and brandished the door open for you.

Turning on the light, the first noticeable piece of furniture was your upright piano. Tried and true it had been your friend through many sleepless nights, more than you could count. There for you when no could understand you, when words failed you, there was always this: you could return to the music, and it would save you. You had a makeshift desk, a rather large dining room table in a corner. It was strewn with sheet music, text books, and a rotary phone. You had an enormous blackboard hanging on the wall behind your large bed. Musical notations were scribbled on it in half-asleep hurried handwriting. To the right of it on the wall was an even larger bulletin board with more stable notations pinned to it. You had a deep plum-colored armchair next to a window with a high stool next to it serving as an end table. A old cup of tea was resting on it from earlier in the day; several tabloid magazine rested under the cup. A record player was in the corner by the door, several albums rested in a very wide floor-to-ceiling shelf next to it. It was the tallest, largest piece in the room. A collection built over careful years of curating your tastes and passions. A bench in front of the bed had a rustic conifer-colored throw on it. The bedding was deep maroons and rusty oranges. Several dresses were layered on the bed, some inside out some discarded. The window was open, and slight breeze made the gauzy curtains twirl in the very late night, or exceptionally early morning. The floors were a dark-colored hardwood, with a simple beige area rug to finish it off. The closet was insignificant compared to the colorful and varied clothes covering the floor of it, obscuring several pairs of shoes while doing so. It was your favorite room in the apartment, besides the kitchen, and the bathroom’s fantastic antique claw-foot tub.

Deacy hadn’t said anything yet. “I know it’s not much,” you said, “but it’s mine and—“

“I love everything about it. It’s everything you love and are perfectly condensed into one space. I’m not sure what I expected, but this is you; it’s flawless. If you find me in the middle of the night looking at your record collection, you can’t blame me; it’s better than my own.”

“I get that a lot.” You laughed. Deacy gave you a look, one eyebrow raised, all innocent curiosity. “Oh, not from men I’m sleeping with, just people who know my interests and have heard of my collection.”

“Your collection is quite prodigious…” His hands fluttered past a row of plastic sleeve covers, making that all too specific soft clicking sound.

“You were gonna add for someone my age, weren’t you?” You asked playfully.

“I was and thought better of it; ten years isn’t too much.” He added, softly touching a few keys on your piano.

“Not to obsess over, no; and, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter to me.” You smiled at him, putting an end to that topic hopefully for the duration. “I don’t really have any pajamas for you to wear. Turn around while I change into mine?”

Deacy looked at you like maybe you were joking; his eyes squinted and his face angled as if trying to detect your humor through his chin. He put his hands over his eyes, then peeped through them slyly yet obviously.

“Really! Deacy! We haven’t seen each other naked. Close your eyes!” You were laughing as you said it, though you were quite serious. There was something sacred to preserve here, you thought. Some innocence to be stolen away if he saw you naked now and not during intercourse. It would be so anticlimactic for the first time you see someone naked was when they were struggling to put on their flannel bottoms, and not during some all out sexual to-do. He obeyed this time, to the letter, and kept his eyes shut until you had finished changing. “Okay, you can look now.”

He opened his eyes and smiled at you in the same way he had been smiling at you the first time he saw you: he was captivated. You were wearing a matching flannel set. Nondescript and routine. Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

Was that love, he thought?

He began undoing his necktie, making sultry eye contact the entire time. He placed it on the armchair. He methodically unbuttoned each button of his blue shirt, removed it, and placed it on the armchair. He had a white tank top on under it, and that he kept on. He removed his black oxfords and red jeans next. His polka-dot boxers where sufficient pjs, you thought. Decorum was satisfied this night, though for how much longer, you weren’t sure. It would be hard enough to sleep in a bed next to Deacy without trying something. You had little hope you’d make it through the night.

You began removing the clothes from the bed, tossing them in your closet. You turned down the bed together and climbed in together.

Deacy reached out and took one of your hands in his, and happily held it, waiting to see if you had anything else to say besides your sleepy good-nights. You turned to him, moving in close, draping a leg across his, and laying your head on his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around your waist, breathing in the scent of your hair, and twirling a strand in his nimble fingers. Your soft snores were the only music he needed.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is hungry for your touch; reader knows there’s so much left unspoken.

John Deacon couldn’t sleep. He usually could, but this wasn’t a problem for him. He was an extreme night owl, and he preferred the company of the murky twilight to that of the too bright day; this didn’t mean he wasn’t blessed with a naturally sunny disposition, or that he wasn’t also deeply pragmatic; rather, just that the night was meant for magic and art for him. These two ideas were inextricably united for him; magic and art danced together in his mind and were the impetus for his romantic sensibilities as much as his musical ones. He enjoyed being up late enough to see the sunrise and promptly surrendering to his bed and to a good day’s sleep, only preferably after writing some song lyric or lingering refrain down on paper.

That ineffable time between twilight and dawn was the time to write, to compose. There was something wholesome and transcendent about seeing the sunrise. No two were ever the same and yet the feelings they stirred in him were always the same; basic pleasure, satisfied contentment, and nostalgia. Sharing the sunrise with someone was inherently romantic. He wondered if you were big on sleeping. Would it be lethal to wake you to share the moment when it arrived? Was it too trite?

John Deacon felt like he was suddenly in some romance novel. He feared it might be too soon in this relationship thing to find out just how trite you liked your romance. Might be too embarrassing to ask, too, he figured. Wake up, baby; see the sunrise isn’t exactly a virile or creative stance to take with any partner, new or old. Towering romance and sweeping, dramatic romantic gestures can seem terribly disingenuous or earthshakingly heartfelt all depending on execution and timing.

He was overthinking this sunrise business. He was probably overthinking all of it–you, the bed, the music in your snores. However, and this was a big however, this tendency to overthink wasn’t one he indulged on the main; he usually acted with complete abandon and chaos, so overthinking every small detail as he was now led him to believe he was on the right path with you; if he didn’t care so much about you, he wouldn’t be obsessing about doing the right thing or even contemplating what the right thing was; he’d just Nike it up and just do it. He smiled to himself, knowing his head and heart were blissfully united.

Holding you and listening to your rhythmic snores gave him a purpose far beyond occupying his wandering mind; he enjoyed being the framework to your slumber. The knowledge the very way he was holding you meant sleep for you was oddly empowering and deeply sentimental. He knew he could get used to this: listening to you sleep, composing songs to your languid breaths, tapping out rhythms on your waist. This was a routine well worth preoccupying himself with. He might never sleep again, but it was worth it, you were worth it. If you were a song, he thought, it would have to include the rhythm of your drowsy dozing. He couldn’t get enough of it. Music was everywhere for John Deacon. Music was magic, and you occupied a place in the palace of musical creation even in your sleeping moments. He treasured that about you. He needed to write you as a song; everything you were he wanted to distill into notes so he’d have something of you to carry with him always. Something by him, that was undeniably yours together.

What would it be like to write a song with you? He wondered if you were a good musician; he realized he had never heard you play before. This needed to be remedied right away. You must be good, going to a Oxford and all, he figured. Clever girl. Maybe even his clever girl. It hasn’t even been 24 hours yet; slow down, he told himself. There would be all the time in the world together if it was meant to be, if you were right for each other; rushing did no one good in matters of love.

And speaking of rushing about, what about Roger? The surprise of Roger being here tonight had been such a misfire. They really couldn’t do anything without each other, could they? It was a little uncanny they had both fallen for girls who weren’t only incredibly close but also lived together. What were the odds? Especially since Roger and Deacy didn’t exactly have the same tastes in women. Roger preferred, well, a pulse. Deacy’s tastes were somewhat more refined.

What would it be like dating ladies who lived together? Courting a woman next to Roger’s too blond hair and perfect swagger wasn’t exactly appealing. Well, that was if Roger ever came back here in the first place. Deacy would have to deal with his teasing and prodding eventually no matter what Roger himself decided to do about the situation; that could be a bridge Deacy would conquer when and if the time ever came. Knowing Roger as well as Deacy did, he knew Rog wasn’t typically a repeat offender. It would be a miracle if Roger returned here at all. Which was really unfortunate; Deacy was sure someone could live a fulfilling life without a permanent partner; there were as many different successful relationship types as there were people to have them. Deacy was a serial monogamist; so he and Roger would never understand each other’s chosen proclivities regarding dating, despite the fact they saw pretty much eye-to-eye regarding sexual expectations and desires.

This relationship drama, however, could easily create a fissure between you and Deacy, which he definitely did not want. If Roger decided to not come back, Lydia could be hurt, and you could take her side, and should, and this could make your relationship together awkward, since Roger was and always would be a best friend of Deacy’s. Come hell or high water, Deacy never wanted to know what life would be like without Roger Meddows Taylor stomping around in it.

Or, there was another option: it could be for the best and in accordance with Lydia’s own desires to never see Roger again, too. He didn’t know Lydia well enough to know, and Deacy, curiously enough, didn’t see her taking a backseat in any relationship she’d enter into, whether it was a passionate one night stand or a dedicated relationship spanning several months or years. Deacy also knew he didn’t know you well enough to know what you’d think about the situation; he’d have to ask you sooner rather than later to head off any potential issues.

There was another possibility, however unlikely it seemed: mainly that Roger was legitimately smitten with Lydia and would be back constantly and consistently to invade her life, and in doing so would make Deacy’s carefully balanced life hellishly chaotic. Chaos of his own doing was good, wonderful even, but chaos caused by others wasn’t always Deacy’s thing.

Roger had been acting rather bizarrely tonight, Deacy remembered. Not that Rog acted in the usual casually basic non-concerned ways of the normal folk; but, he seemed distracted, which was a state rarely seen from someone who was masterfully self-aware, so in self-known-harmony to a point most people confused him for being self-obsessed or self-absorbed. And, yes, fine, he was those things too, but only because he was naturally self-assured and confident: Roger might have many faults but Deacy didn’t consider his actualized confidence to be one of them. Quite the contrary: he envied him this blessing.

Would Rog return to woo Lydia? Deacy hoped so, not only to make his own life easier, but also for Roger’s sake. The fear in Roger’s eyes tonight probably related to his confusion and dire instincts of self-preservation of finally–finally, finding an equal, and what that would mean for his self-directed, devil-may-care lifestyle. Roger would be miserable if he denied this new revelation, and yet he’d be happy in his misery if he just embraced this new opportunity; change is rarely painless, especially when it is good for us.

Deacy wasn’t so sure his fear wouldn’t win out, though; he felt sorry for Roger. Yes, Roger was happy sleeping around and going from woman to woman to woman–sometimes in the same night. But now that Deacy had seen his reaction to finding a equal in Lydia, and seeing the reaction was so volatile and panicked, this made Deacy think maybe Roger wasn’t as happily satisfied as he appeared to be. Predicting what Rog may or may not do was like trying to predict the weather on Jupiter; why even bother and what purpose did it serve?

Deacy, on the other hand, was pleased as punch to find an equal, and he couldn’t wait to start the rest of his life with you.

Not that he could tell you–yet. That would be going too far. And, well, quite honestly, it would remove some of the game from the situation, and the game brought him greater satisfaction than he could readily explain. Or could he explain it, he wondered? Nothing makes a person feel desired more than the first blush of love. The snapshot of the first time someone gives in, relents, accepts a date, holds your hand, the first kiss that everything is in harmony…it all related to the chase for John Deacon. Every moment could be a chase, rather in miniature or grand situations, everything was a chase. He wanted stability with an ever changing sense of the chase.

This was another paradox. His life was governed by them. He couldn’t escape it, and he didn’t want to, but felt he should. Another paradox. And he certainly wanted you and definitely knew he needed to use good judgment over whatever it was his heart was telling him. Bad judgment could scare away a partner easier than breaking promises or relationship vows and standards. You couldn’t tell a woman you had just met you wanted to spend the rest of your life with her. It wasn’t romantic; it was bad judgment. Building the desire up over a course of time, however, was romantic. Showing you he wanted you was going to be his new favorite game.

He considered what time it was, but he couldn’t look at his watch, as it was wrapped around the wrist that was wrapped around your waist. And he hadn’t been able to locate your alarm clock, though he knew you had to have one. Unknowing, he wondered if time had sped up or slowed down. The party, he recalled, seemed to have lasted forever. A fact that had overjoyed him at the time, and weighed heavily on his heart now. There would come a time, and soon, when he’d have to let you go, and and you’d go about your business, and he’d go about his until you reunited for that dinner tonight.

Deacy sighed. The dinner with Miami Beach wasn’t going to be easy. The only thing making him feel comfortable at all was the notion you’d be there as his armor against Rog and Bri. At least Freddie was on his side. And more than anything else he hated thinking they were all on sides at all. It was abhorrent, the notion of them being on different sides. Whatever happened tonight, it wasn’t going to be pretty or easy and certainly nothing about it was going to be fair. The idea to hold the meeting in a public place had been Jim’s. He hoped it would help keep tempers to a calm simmer instead of throwing fuel on the fires and sending them raging around the room. Deacy was sure Jim had been mostly thinking of Roger for this arrangement. It wasn’t beyond him, or any of them, to flick anger or objects at each other when provoked.

Maybe everyone will get along and we can come to an agreement and just processed with the record, Deacy hoped. He sighed again, troubled in his thoughts, too wound up to sleep, and too surprised to have met you among the muck that was his professional life.

Maybe he was making the fighting out to be a bigger deal than it was? Maybe we all were, he thought. They had fought before, and this was surely no different. They’d make it over the disagreements and resentments and find their way back to the careful and cherished supportive love they had always had for each other. The creative times, when they were all writing together, were simultaneously the best and worst times they had as a band. Wonderfully robust sessions with new ideas and fantastic gems of songs wrought out of nowhere, and then there it all was, placed on a page, and then they’d record the magic, and suddenly they’d have music. Deacy lived for these times, and he knew the others did too. On the other hand, these times always also had fights, jabs, heavy hearts, dark piercing criticisms made threats, and too easily hurt feelings and egos. Nothing about Queen was clear cut and certain; they were always changing and redefining themselves while constantly and consistently staying true to who they were.

Another paradox. If he kept thinking about the business of Queen he’d never sleep. It’s difficult when you’ve created something with people you love and those people don’t always agree. Everything is personal. Everything is emotional. There’s just no way to separate the heart from one’s art. And Queen knows that more than any other band. They just needed to surmount this one slump and everything would be peachy.

Your skin smelled faintly of peaches, he thought, taking in your scent. He wondered if your bed would smell like him, and if you’d be able to stand it when you realized it. You were half on top of him and half on the bed, still snoring in a secure and carefree way he knew he’d have to get used to if he ever wanted to sleep again. It was comforting, yes. Endearing, too. Though not conducive to sleep when one plays in the rhythm section of a band.

His arm was falling asleep. How best to move it and you so you don’t wake up? He wasn’t sure how light or heavy a sleeper you were.

However, if he woke up you, he wasn’t sure he’d let you stay asleep…

Kissing you, he thought, was paramount. And it was a right well shame you weren’t kissing at that very moment. This wasn’t going anywhere good fast; he could feel himself getting excited and desirous of you in his mind that always led to a physical reaction. He either needed to wake you up right now and consider ravishing you, or think about electrical diagrams to distract his cock from waking up.

What use were electrical diagrams when you had a woman on top of you, he thought.

It was essentially what they called a no-brainer.

Your head was on his shoulder/chest area still. He traced a hand through your hair a couple times, gently saying your name.

Didn’t work. Okay, not a light sleeper. Noted.

He shook you, still tenderly, from his gripping point on your waist. The sensation of pin pricks shot up his hand and arm as he did so; his sleeping arm wasn’t recovering. He lifted you up, and slid his arm out from under you.

And that’s when you snapped awake.

“Am I late again?” You asked to the room. You sunk a hand under your bed and brought up your alarm clock. It said 6:27AM in damning red letters. You dropped it to the floor and began to snuggle back into the man in your bed.

There was a man in your bed.

And that’s when the party and it’s events raced to catch up with your not quite fully awake mind.

John Deacon was in your bed.

John Deacon, bassist of Queen, was in your bed.

You sat up. John was staring up at you from his grey eyes, a small, curiously engaged smile on his face.

He still looked great. Did sleeping attack men like it did women, you questioned? Didn’t seem fair he’d still be looking fabulous while you probably looked like something found at the bottom of a drain.

He reached up, slowly hooking a strand of wavy hair behind your ear. He wasn’t sure what to say, or even if he could make coherent sounds let alone string together the dance in his heart into coherent words. The dawn was rising, and its shy light was hitting you like a caress, and in that moment he knew he was looking at true beauty.

“This is my preferred moment.” He said this exceptionally quietly so you’d have to hear him.

“Oh? Right at dawn?” You yawned and noticed drool marks that could only be yours on his tank top, and rubbed the corners of your mouth as slyly as you could.

“No. Well, yes. I love this time of day. But I wasn’t referring to that.”

“What were you referring to, then? Out with it, Johnny.”

Smiling like the soft curve of a rose, he said, “You. How you look right now. You captivate me; you’re more captivating than any song I’ve ever written.” He shrugged then, as if to say, that’s just how it is. Deal with it.

You froze, thinking of your boring flannel pjs, your bed head hair, the sleepy breath you had to have had by now, and what you’d come to think of as the drooling incident of 1981. You studied his eyes, to see if he was teasing you, possibly playing some game he had yet tell you the rules of, or something like that. His eyes were steady and something about them was far away yet piercing; he was looking in your eyes but seeing all of you simultaneously. He was taking you in as each second passed as if he were committing you to memory. You figured he had really meant what he said. For no one had ever looked at you like that.

You thought what a life with Deacy would be like, then. In that moment, as he stared at you thinking the same exact thing, you wondered how it could work together. He travels for work. You don’t have a career to speak of, though if yours took off, you’d most likely be traveling too. The logistics weren’t the best. But those eyes. Those grey eyes. And how he kissed you, how he made you feel beautiful, and interesting, and desired. That meant more than a few months apart, surely. You sensed in him a great capability of devotion, a fantastic unshakable loyalty not only towards you, potentially, but with anyone he chose to form a bond with—including Queen. Once he entered into something, it would take a great cataclysmic event to end it. Once John Deacon was all in, he was in for good.

You couldn’t stop imagining a life with him. You didn’t want to stop.

And that’s when Deacy pulled you to him.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deacy and reader cross the Rubicon.

You were preoccupied when he took your hand. It’s probably why you were surprised by his pending throw-down. While you were lost in thought about what a life with Deacy could be like, and if you were ready to commit to it, he had already made up his mind on the entire matter, and knew he needed to take you right then and there—if you were willing. He couldn’t wait a single minute longer. Though he knew he’d be just as willing to wait forever for you if it meant possessing you entirely, permanently, and mutually. Reciprocity in all things.

John took your hand.

You hadn’t thought much of it, at first. But you would.

Deacy took your hand in a moment, without warning. It was a careful touch, excessively soft—meek, even, and yet it was entirely deliberate; he was a man who at all times knew what he was doing. He drew a musical note or two on your palm, mostly to set you at ease before he decided to make his move.

This move, you would come to remember fondly. You’d think of it as a turning point. The Move.

Deacon took your hand in his. He turned it over in his, and traced notes on it. They were notes he had been turning over in his head all night, all morning. He was composing to you, for you already. It was a fact. Immutable and entirely belonging to you both. You had become every song running through his mind. You were the tune he wanted to never get out of his head, the record he wanted to be scratched just so, so it would only play you. Now, music was you and you were music.

John Deacon took your hand in his own, full of masterful melodies, and turned you into music. The notes meant nothing to you yet, but, much later when Freddie would sing them, when you heard them on the radio, and saw them performed live, it would stir in you the memories of this momentous morning. You had started as a couple of strangers merely holding hands, and your entire relationship would center around this repeating refrain: two hands holding.

John Richard Deacon took your distracted hand in his, resting, pausing, waiting until he knew he had your attention. But you weren’t meeting him–you were so preoccupied by something, so he’d have to make you hear the music. Music he had been hearing all night, since he first saw you in Garden Lodge. Music had been playing at the party, yes–even Queen’s music–but he hadn’t heard it; the song he had been dancing to was you. He squeezed your hand in the personal way you had become accustomed to, and this made you look him in the eyes, finally. Deacy’s eyes were alight with a savory smile: there was something sweet, something mischievous in it. He was hunting. Swiftly, and without warning, he pulled you to him in one generously strong motion; it was, as it always would be, a dance.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you on top of him, and he lowered himself back down. What is a kiss? Four lips meeting? A union? A contract? If you could be hands holding, why not lips kissing? Your hands moved up his neck to hold his cheeks as you kissed. Kissing was serious business for you. It wasn’t something to be done casually, or without thought. Every kiss meant something; secret meaning lingered behind every kiss, every time. Each kiss was a metaphor waiting to be unpacked, discovered, and explored.

The kisses were slow at first, they almost always were with Deacy. Each move was a game and games needed to be built up, layer upon layer until the checkmate was realized. You liked this about him, there was a sense of tremendous care in every movement, every word; he rushed nothing. The man had the patience of a rock. One kiss, a breath, another kiss, a breath, gazing into each other’s eyes before the next kiss came, wave after delicate wave. Hands holding faces and waists and lips holding lips. You traded kisses like you traded glances, shy at first and more confident with each passing exchange.

Lips could dance, too.

Deacy knew this and he wanted to dance with you. His lips pressed onto yours, opening and closing again. It was a gentle tease. Which is what he was precisely. He laughed softly at your growing frustration, wondering what it would take to make you take the upper hand.

The kissing the kissing and only the kissing. You wanted to speed this up; each kiss was whetting your appetite and making you wetter to the point where you were becoming quite single-minded: his hardening cock, which you felt most poignantly. Yet he was happily kissing you without end, like it was his soul’s mission, his heart’s goal. You groaned. Very different from a moan.

At the groan, Deacy removed his lips from yours immediately. He began kissing up your cheek, until he reached your ear. He graciously bit the lobe before whispering “What’s wrong?” There was a twist in his voice, it was laugh-tinged, attractive, and wry. “Not enjoying yourself?” What else can I do, that tone said, to please you.

This was a game, you realized. It was one you could play.

You moved his face with your hands, so he’d be looking at your directly. You dug down with your thighs, gripping him tightly, and made a swinging motion you hoped he’d pick up on.

He did. He happily helped you rotate on the spot so you were under him now. With the advantage of being under him, you slithered your hands down his chest and whipped his boxers off before he could make any halfhearted attempt to prolong the moment. He hid his look of surprise with one of honest humor. He was pleased with himself, at getting you as riled up as you had gotten him. This was the first time you had seen his penis. Sure, you had felt it, excavated it with your hands a couple times, but seeing is believe, as they say. You had seen dick before, and his was like every other: same typical form you had come to expect, but each one had its own unique charm. His was lengthy, sufficiently girthy to be enjoyable and not a hindrance to certain activities or proclivities. All these aesthetic notations boiled down to one thought: You saw it and wanted it inside you. Another simple fact.

While you were visually examining his more than adequate cock, he was unbuttoning your flannel shirt. This was, for him, tremendously exciting. The act of undressing and being undressed was a tremendous turn on for Deacy. Each button, zipper, each flourishing of a garment and removal thereof was exciting, always. It didn’t matter if he was the one being undressed by someone, if he was undressing for somebody, if he was undressing somebody–it was all hot. As long as clothes were in the picture and they were coming off of someone, it was more sexually explicit and enjoyable for him than physical touch. We all have our kinks, he figured. Why not clothes? This was something a certain Roger Taylor also understood.

However, Deacy wasn’t going to think of Roger while having sex with you. So, that was a matter for another time.

Each button he unclasped was, like the kissing, a promise and the lengthening of the foreplay he so enjoyed. It was all part of the game. He was savoring each button, as you savored the visual appeal of his penis. You looked him in the eyes, then.

“Shirt for shirt,” you said.

Deacy smiled at you, a true partner if he ever saw one; you just got him instinctively. He retracted his hands from your buttons, crossing his arms, he lifted his tank top off in one slick motion. He tossed it to the floor of your bedroom. This was the first time you saw him naked. Completely unclothed. A rock-star in the nude.

What even was life? You smiled at him. He was beautiful. Under-appreciated, even. There was more chest hair than you had imagined he’d have; there was something about photos of him from ten years ago that made you think he’d have next to none. His masculinity was a secret he kept for himself, perhaps. Not that masculinity was the first thing that came to mind when pondering the sexual nature of four glam rock gods, but here you were, in the lap of the gods, quite literally. When in Rome make as the Romans do and all that.

“Exquisite,” You said.

Maybe he blushed, maybe it was a trick of the dawn.

He lowered himself, slightly, to kiss you. There was more to this kiss than all the others. Something vulnerable in it, something clear, like a thank you, or having nothing to hide. He slipped his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss; he returned to your buttons, only a few left before you’d be shirtless.

You placed your hands on his face, wanting to warm them up before traveling down to your main preoccupation. Your hands slid briefly through his springing hair, down his cheeks, to his chest, each touch another affirmation, another pledge. You reached his waist as he finished your buttons.

“Shirt for shirt,” he said, sliding yours off in a flash. He pulled on the drawstrings of your flannel shorts, untying the prim bow you had deliberately laced. He raised a crafted eyebrow at you, a final check, a final opportunity to turn back and go back to sleep.

You were fully awake, though, and you knew what you wanted.

You winked at John Deacon.

He slid the shorts off your body without further ado. This was the first time he saw you naked. A night full of firsts, you’d come to joke about it as. He was lost in you, for a moment, though we couldn’t blame him. Your breasts were generous, though not overly so. Modest, maybe, though glorious all the same. Appetizing, he’d say later. Whenever you joked about appetizers in the company of others, you’d both be thinking of this moment; one of your first private jokes.

He resumed kissing you, feeling around your nipples with one hand, and slowly traveling down to your vagina with the other. Slowly, slowly traveling down, he paused at your waist, or would skip to your luxuriant thighs, bypassing the vaginal area altogether. It was the exploration of every track of skin, parts of you he’d hammer into his memory, chisel into his mind so he’d always have a part of you with him. He was teasing you again, though. Each pass of his fingers on your nipples made you moan, each kiss swelled, each muscle was beginning to tense with another sort of promise.

You began slowly stroking his cock. As slowly as he was your nipples and inner thighs. You stopped kissing his lips, like he had done to you earlier. He moaned lightly, maybe he said you name, too. You began kissing his neck; slowly licking in circles, placing a kiss, then biting, then licking, kissing, biting.

His breathing increased with each tantalizing bite. He decided to copy your pattern on your clitoris. He’d slowly circle with one hand, and playfully pinch with the other every time you bit his neck. Reciprocity in all things.

You were moaning in syncopation.

He altered his motions by slipping a couple fingers inside your vagina. You arched your back into him, losing track of your own stroking motions and kissing patterns. He kept rubbing your clit while sliding his fingers inside you a little deeper each time, and then back out and in and out and in; your body was responding gratefully with each repeat; your muscles were becoming tighter with each passing second.

You looked in his eyes, his grey eyes. And reflected back to you was unity, compassion, and flattering thirst. As your orgasm hit you, dug your hands into his waist, rocking back and forth with great abandon and confidence. You weren’t intending to let go just yet, but you couldn’t help yourself, you couldn’t stop it; he made you feel comfortable and safe.

Still throbbing, still breathing hard, you said, “I wanted to wait longer; I couldn’t; you’re fantastic.”

He kissed you then, savoring your sweat and sweetness, still pinching your clit.

“I need you.” He said between kisses. His cock was still exceptionally hard.

“Put yourself out of your misery, Johnny.” You said, giving him the final piece of permission he needed.

He deftly slid his cock inside you. You once again rocked into him, finding a rhythm defined by some unspoken musical contract, some dance known only to you both. You wrapped your legs around him, and placed gentle kisses down his neck, which you licked back up to the top once you reached his clavicle: up and down and again; in and out and again; four lips kissing; two hands holding.

Eventually, his orgasm reached him, and with a sigh, he collapsed on top on you.

“Exquisite,” He said, breath slowly returning to normalcy.

“You took the words right out my mouth.”

Deacy kissed you, “Well, if you insist.” Each kiss was light, carefree, the end of a sentence.

You smiled in satisfaction.

It was his turn to snore, now. He was nestled into your chest, and each careful snore of his was a song you began writing in your own head.

Good thing you didn’t snore, you thought.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t you hear me calling you…?

Roger Taylor didn’t remember his descent from the retro five story walk-up, so full of color that place had been. Sharp rainbows of light, prisms of flowering color, life was a kaleidoscope for him, for them there. In that place, color was transcendence, and he had been riding the wave. Riding the wave with Lydia since he met her, really. She was color. She was feeling. She was light. So full of light she was bursting with it. Technicolor, he thought. But he couldn’t, he wasn’t, he just couldn’t–

He saw it happening in front of his eyes, like something from a science fiction film; every step he took away from that bucolic art deco place, every running dash from light, every step towards his desertion drained the color from his vision. Everything faded to blacks and whites and ceased to matter.

He didn’t remember getting into his Alfa Romeo. He was sure it used to be red. Nor did he recall how long he had been sitting in it, with his hands gripping the wheel. This wasn’t traveling without moving, for even his mind wasn’t racing; he was immovable.

This persisted.

For a great deal of time.

More time than he’d ever admit to anyone ever.

Longer than made sense to anyone passing him on the streets.

Certainly longer than made sense to him.

He felt he wasn’t making sense anymore. The world wasn’t making sense anymore. Where had the color gone?

Where was Brian when you needed him? Probably sleeping, the lucky bugger, Roger thought.

In time, he lowered his head to the steering wheel and attempted to collect his thoughts.

But his thoughts were only for Lydia. He kept getting flashes of her, memories of her scent, her moans, her laughter, her colors. What it had felt like to hold her, to make love to her. And this was causing him tremendous discomfort, acute pain, and outrageous wrath.

He either needed to hit something or fuck somebody. Bang on something or bang someone. The old routine. Old faithful. Denial could take a person only so far, but a person? A person was a horse of a different color. Roger knew burying yourself in a warm body was the pathway to the existential bliss of a free mind. He needed relief, and he’d get it from someone else as he always had before. Before Lydia.

Was that what time was now? Before Lydia and after Lydia.

Stop that right now, Roger thought.

Where am I? He wasn’t sure. Some part of London. He needed to get away. He picked his head up, put a key in the ignition, and tried to start his car.

It wouldn’t start.

He slid his head back to the wheel and thought about feeling trapped in more ways than one. Then, painstakingly slowly he realized he had put the wrong key in the ignition.

Roger considered himself a smart man, and he was right. Right now, however, Roger felt like a fucking idiot. He put the right key in the ignition, started his baby, which always came for him, and wasn’t let down when she started her familiar purring. He shifted her into gear and started driving.

Fuck. He thought.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He arrived someplace. He didn’t remember getting there either. Am I going slightly mad, he wondered?

If only it were that simple.

Or maybe it was; Roger was attempting to slip back into his comfortable denial. The problem with emotions and emotionally intelligent people was that they could play themselves. Other people too, of course, could be trapped into their easy manipulations, but frequently what got ignored was their prowess at self-deception. Roger was a pro at it. Sure, he knew his own emotions, he wasn’t completely blind to his situation. He wasn’t blind to it at all, in fact. He just didn’t want to recognize that he was falling in love. It would, in short, ruin his life to do so. Or so he thought. He was convinced on this account. So convinced the only option he saw at surviving this cataclysmic event was to manipulate himself and his own emotions into a state of frantic denial. However, ever since leaving Lydia’s bedroom, his grip, usually tight and masterful, was beginning to deteriorate.

And now, well, he was desperate.

Fuck. He thought. Get a fucking grip. He wanted to grip Lydia.

No. No. You don’t. He thought. You don’t want to grip her. You want to grip someone else. Anybody else. Anyone would do. Literally anyone else. You’re fucked, mate. It’s finally happened. Happened. You’re falling in love and she’s everything you’ve ever wanted and—

And?

What exactly was wrong with it? With letting it happen?

Everything. For starters. So, fuck that. Fuck everything about it. And let’s get back to fucking everybody. She doesn’t exist. She’s dead to you.

You’re cracking up, mate. Just very slightly mad. What would be the harm in falling in love?

You’re already falling in love. You’re trying to stop it. Fuck it.

What would be the harm in letting yourself fall in love?

Roger screamed out loud, still sitting in his parked car. It was guttural. The screech of a wounded animal. No one was outside the club. No one heard him. But he felt embarrassed. Watched. Observed. Paranoid.

Pull yourself together. She’s just a girl. She’s nothing. She’s not worth it.

Besides, he thought, the truth was simple: You probably don’t deserve her. Anyway. She can do better. She can do better than some musician. You’d destroy her life. She’d come to hate you. You aren’t worthy of that kind of happiness. She’s everything, and you’re nothing. You. Don’t. Deserve. Her.

You don’t deserve her and you never did.

He left the car and entered the club. He didn’t care what it looked like. He saw nothing. Roger walked up to the bar.

“Gin and tonic.” He slid the bartender a 50.00 pound note, and said nothing else to him.

After receiving his drink, Roger downed it, wished he could drown in it. He placed the glass back on the bar, and signaled the bartender for another round. Roger surveyed the room, the room he didn’t care to remember or witness. He was looking for women. There were five women scattered around the place. Two were sitting together. One was alone. One was with another man. And one was dancing to some song he couldn’t place and didn’t want to recall.

Probably some disco trash.

The one sitting alone would be the quickest work of it. Roger reached for his second cocktail, and sauntered over to the woman sitting at a table he wasn’t thinking about.

She might have been beautiful. She might even have been someone quite special, talented, and interesting. But he didn’t really see her. He didn’t want to see her. He didn’t want to know anything about her. He didn’t care about her.

He wasn’t really sure he cared about himself at this moment either. He didn’t deserve caring about himself.

All the better, he thought.

All the better reason to not pursue Lydia.

He grimaced as he felt some pain in his side. Something nondescript, something poignant, something sharp.

Maybe it was his heart.

But Roger didn’t really think he had a heart. Especially at this moment. He didn’t think he deserved one. Not if he was going to do this–again. And if he was going to do this to Lydia. With whom he had made no promises, but with whom he wanted to make every promise. He shook his head. Took a sip of his drink.

He made eye contact with the woman. He couldn’t tell you the color of her eyes. He saw her smile at him as a flash of recognition passed across her face.

She knows me, he thought. That’ll make this easier.

He didn’t ask if he could join her.

He sat, and he flashed her a disarming smile. Charm was easy for him. He could charm the devil before the devil could realize it.

Roger leaned in to her and said, “I’ll make you a bet.”

He didn’t remember her response, or the timbre of her voice, but it didn’t matter; he knew he had her. He always won. Why did this feel like losing?

Don’t think about it.

He opened the door for her; it was the least he could do.

“Now, love,” he said, squeezing her thigh, “what’s your address?”

She told him, he was certain, because they were entering an apartment that wasn’t his home, an apartment he would be doing everything within his power to not recall the next day.

He pressed her up against the door, kissing her routinely, touching her in ways he’d knew bring her joy, waiting to feel the same sensations, waiting for the dull ache to be sedated by the sweetness of another body. He remembers her pleasure, but none of his own.

He was in her bathroom. He doesn’t recall the color of the tiles, the size of the tub, or the brightness of the lights. Color wasn’t a thing anymore.

He does remember the mirror. Polished and gleaming. Maybe she was a person who enjoyed a pristine mirror. Though he didn’t care to recall that detail, even though he asked her about it before he left. He remembered staring into the mirror long after redressing.

Was I crying? Was that why it took so long to leave the bathroom? He couldn’t remember. Or maybe he didn’t want to remember.

He remembered the mirror and staring at himself. Thinking if Lydia had fallen asleep by now. Wondering what she looked like sleeping. Like the Goddess she was, he thought. He knew. His heart knew.

He remembered staring in the mirror. He saw himself. This would usually work. Finding somebody always worked. It had always worked. This was supposed to make me feel better, he thought.

This was supposed to fix it. Make him forget her. Make him forget himself. But instead that hadn’t happened. Instead he only felt empty.

He felt empty. Vacant. Nothing.

And then he was home again.

And he was alone.

He didn’t recall getting there. He didn’t want to remember anything about this night. Especially her. Especially her. He didn’t want to feel, which was the worst thing he could ever think, he thought. For Roger was, if anything, his emotions.

He went to bed. 

He hugged his pillow. 

And he tried to not think about her.

And colors didn’t exist anymore.

And he felt empty.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim gives reader the business; reader discovers John has a dragon on his back.

Passion was fire. God, it was so trite, but that didn’t make it any less true. You and Deacy were fire. Everything about last night, and the dawn had be as close to perfection as was possible. So fantastic those moments had been you didn’t want to leave them behind let alone stop playing them through you mind. You were sweaty; the bed was sweltering. This was a satisfied feeling, though; the sweat had been well-earned and the heat was worth it. You had forgotten how sleeping next to someone else was a warm business. You had dreamed of fire, though, which hadn’t helped you feel any cooler. Coldness wasn’t anything you’d feel anymore, you keenly figured. Not with the Sahara Desert sleeping on top of you. For such a lanky man, he certainly knew how to keep warmth in every pocket, in every curl of his hair: the man was hot.

You had been mirage-hot while making love with Deacy early this morning, that was for sure. You were blurry with excess and shimmering with candid vulnerability only sex can bring; transparency mixed with tender affection, honest joy, and blunt curiosity. Without qualification, the sex you two had had today had been the most sexually fulfilling experience of your entire life; it was more than your base compatibility with each other, which was easily second to none, you thought. It was the compassion and care Deacy had put into every touch, every sound, and every word of the the entire encounter. Of every encounter, really, since you had met last night. Every action Deacy took was full of meaning. Maybe he wasn’t always transparent about his intentions, but you could tell every whisper to every yell from him was painted with great detail and precision. Each gesture wasn’t just a movement, but a carefully planned moment posed to capture something intimate within his mind.

You couldn’t understand how the next day had arrived already. Last night, the dawn, seemed to have lasted an eternity. You weren’t even sure you could call the dawn today since it felt like a million years ago; time had stretched itself out for you, pausing, halting once more like it had when you had first caught Deacy staring at you. Time was something that happened to other people, yet again. Yet here you were, in some hazy time of the afternoon? Maybe? You weren’t sure about anything regarding time anymore. It was suddenly an elusive concept, slippery and mysteriously dismissive. You felt Deacy sleeping in your arms; the bassist dozed peacefully, breathing with a rhythm all his own. Random snores popped up like fireworks on delay, or like a beat he couldn’t catch up to–it was adorable. He’s right here, you thought, in my arms. He’s here. He’s here.

Each time you heard your self-doubt attempt to climb up to the surface of your mind, you hit it back with the surety of his body in you arms, with the sting he had tied to your wrist, with the vivid flashes of feeling him inside you, with the softness of his kisses. You were absentmindedly tracing shapes on his shoulder, his forearm, his elbow. All rather supple while simultaneously being bony or pointy. There was something about his body that was more sharp angles than meaty muscles; except for his arms, those were toned from constant base-playing, you figured. People don’t think about the constitution it takes playing instruments; your arms or legs are held in the same position for a song, or a two hour concert and you can’t just stop when you’re tired; you had no idea how Freddie did it, to be honest. You imagined him running around stage, still being able to play the piano, and still being able to sing: he was a fucking miracle. Even something as simple-seeming as playing the bass could be tiring by the end of a concert; sore fingers, stiff muscles, bleeding blisters… really it was all a wash of miserable pain tempered with the tremendous payoff of performing one’s art for thousands of people. That energy transference makes it worth it; give as good as you get, and the audience would repay all your struggles and unyielding perfection with undying appreciation, adoration, and outright obsession. All the things every rock-star craves in one form or another, whether or not they’re willing to admit it. As a budding musician, you felt the same pull to create and share your work, and you wondered if you’d ever be as lucky as they are in having the capacity and audience to share it.

Deacy shifted slightly in his slumber. His spine was more interesting to you, if you were being honest. You could feel each bone segment under your fingers, and it reminded you, oddly, of your piano. You wondered if you could play him similarly, and what it would be like to compose on him. This image wouldn’t leave your mind; some tenuous, tender newborn deer of a kernel of an idea was taking form in your mind: he was your piano. Maybe he was everything you loved about music, distilled into a body, in a man walking upright in the world; you couldn’t hold music, it was esoteric, too powerful to grasp, but Deacy contained melodies in his lizard body, and you could hold him, were holding him. The notion was making your head spin, but you knew something profound was taking shape.

The sun was blazing through the open window of your bedroom. Your curtains were barely moving in a tired breeze. They waved at you reassuringly. Good morning, they seemed to say to you. We know all about last night, girl. Good for you. You loved the wind, and wished for a blustery day to take the heat away. However, lack of wind wasn’t the reason why you were warmer than normal. It was the body heat. All the body heat. The body heat of the man sleeping on you, with his arms splayed near you, breathing softly nestled into your chest. John Deacon was warm, comforting, and heavy. Why wasn’t he wearing a wristwatch, you wondered? You needed to check the time, but that meant moving, or waking Deacy up from his endearing slumber. You should have kept the clock on the bed instead of tossing it on the floor last night. You played yourself, you thought.

You would have to try and reach for it without waking him. Not an insurmountable task, surely. We’re not talking Everest here. Just bed to floor reaching. Why couldn’t you have been a ballet dancer instead of a musician, you wondered. Surely with that level of flexibility and grace this covert sting mission could be easily accomplished without waking the fantastic man on top of you. It was painful being so close to successfully landing a task and then failing it outright. This must be what runners feel like just failing to break the ribbon with their bodies, watching someone else do it, wishing you were them. All sweat and personal resentment. Your arm was stretching to capacity, your fingers were wiggling as if to summon by magic the alarm clock to your hand. Fingers outstretched, arm aching, you shifted closer to the edge of the bed, a movement, while deftly quiet, and somewhat surprisingly skilled, managed to wake Deacy. Well, he wasn’t a heavy sleeper by any means.

He turned his neck, rubbing his sore muscles, yawing. He saw you, then, reaching beyond the bed for the clock. Frozen, you appeared to be caught in the act, though what you had been caught doing was quite innocent and utilitarian. This simple tableau filled his heart with homespun elation, and he coveted your comedic timing. He found himself once again returning to the notion that he could get used to this, waking up next to you, surprised and content at seeing what you were trying to get away with while he slept. Deacy was the lightest sleeper he had ever encountered. It was essentially impossible to get away with anything when you were dating a light sleeper. This fact didn’t stop Roger from trying. Roger’s main goal during tour was perfecting the art of waking Deacy up as often as he possibly could using the most random and quietest techniques known to man. He was sure Brian had a journal documenting the whole enterprise. Deacy smiled; he loved them all so entirely, so purely. 

“Good morning, Y/N.” Deacy happily reached down for the clock and brought it up for you. It was a simple, fluid motion that caused him no effort. He kissed your forehead, and craned his neck, searching for his clothes and coffee.

“Hello, Deacy.” You said, mock-irritated at his helpful display. You patiently watched his body twist and turn as he stretched and ruffled his auburn hair. He was oddly elegant, weirdly graceful: swan-like, you thought.

You looked at the clock.

11:50AM, it said, winking red-ly back at you.

“Oh no,” you exclaimed. You had never slept so late in your entire life–this wasn’t an exaggeration. You were obsessed with perfection regarding your musicianship, which meant practice, practice, practice. You had the right to brag, though, because of it; you were second to none at Oxford. 

Deacy was halfway through putting on his red jeans; he was fully half dressed; in a way that let you know a lot about him: he had stopped halfway through putting on his pants because he wanted to put his shoes on and finish those off before progressing upwards with buttoning of the pants. Quirky, to be sure, cause for dismissal, nope.

Pausing once more with his buttons, smiling slyly, Deacy said, “Well, if you insist; I can get squeeze you in again before leaving.”

You grinned at him, shaking your head at him, lovingly so, only somewhat annoyed at his determination in the face of your pressing problem, being: “No! I’m going to be late for my lunch with Jim. And I wanted to make a good impression on him.”

“Jim is a stickler for punctuality.” Deacy said while buttoning his pants. “However, you wouldn’t have gotten the invitation if you hadn’t already made a good impression on him; he’s…terribly choosy with whom he shares his time. How fast can you get ready? I can give you a ride there then you’ll only be late peripherally.” He waved his hand at the word, like it was a catchall excuse for any indiscretion. Deacy was only somewhat disappointed at wasting the opportunity for morning sex; like you, he couldn’t stop replaying last night’s greatest hits through his mind. Though, the chance to linger with you during the ride to Garden Lodge was a fantastic alternative bonus. 

“Shit!” You said in response, grabbing clothes at random from the bottom of your closet.

You slipped a black bra on, then started buttoning a black blouse. It was easy cotton, feminine, short sleeved. Embellished with floral embroidery on it you had done yourself; deep plums, fantastic oranges, emeralds; large and sweeping flowers, not small dainty pinpricks. The scoop from the neckline was deep and showed off your chest in a pleasing manner that still left much to the imagination, while giving a clear idea of the coming attractions.

Deacy watched you button your shirt intently. He paused mid-button of his own vividly blue button-down; happily gazing at you, he felt himself instantly wanting to undress you from it, and wishing you were doing up his own buttons. The flowy shirt wasn’t tight but showed off your body nonetheless; it was prim while being coyly sexy; the paradox wasn’t missed by him. You began putting on simple, sheer white tights, that made your skin porcelain-colored and delicate-looking. Deacy watched you glide into a shiny white leather skirt, tight but flaring at the knees ever so slightly. You tucked your blouse into it unthinkingly. The ensemble was loud and silently understated.

Deacy came up behind you, fully dressed, and slid his hands on your waist, then into your waistband. He carefully re-tucked your shirt into your skirt—you had missed a section in your haste. Neatly folded into your skirt, he traced his hands up your back to your shoulders. He kissed the back of your neck. This clotheshorse, while attracted to clothing, was also attracted deeply to the idea of perfection in the presentation of any garment. Clothing was art, clothing could be a con, it could get you wanted or keep you from it just as easily.

You turned around and kissed him full on the lips. The thoughtful gesture tugged at your heart, not fulling knowing his deep passion for such things, it just seemed sweet and considerate; not that he didn’t care about your presentation, but sometimes, frequently, our own desires trump our own seemingly pure motivations. Pulling away you put your large angled glasses on, and grabbed a golden layered necklace. You sat and put on a pair of Cognac-colored oxfords. You ruffled your haphazard dark hair; it would look messy no matter what you did to it anyway. Thick, but unruly; Lydia would know how to fix it just right. You frowned slightly.

“You look exquisite.” Deacy said, smiling at you as he stood by the door to your bedroom. You had used the word this morning under different circumstances, and it was like it belonged only to you both now; something in its definition meant something entirely new, beyond its original meaning and usage. It was your word, now.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you said raising a cocky eyebrow at him. “Didn’t you have a necktie?”

“Yes. I was thinking of just leaving it here.” He was trying to sound nonchalant, like maybe you wouldn’t have noticed, or maybe it would be the start of another game you’d play, and he’d have the upper-hand, and was failing spectacularly on all accounts.

“Fine by me,” you said, trying to hide your shyly pleased smile, and also failing spectacularly at accomplishing this.

“About tonight,” Deacy said, ushering you out the door of your room; the man could keep time, that was for sure.

“Wait—” you said. You veered off to another doorway and turned the lights on in a licorice-colored bathroom. You began brushing your teeth and checking your face in the mirror.

Even the sink and antique tub were black, which Deacy found oddly charming and classical. There was a twist going on here; the ceiling was white, ivory, maybe? Tiles had small ivory circles linking each black square.

“It’s like a harpsichord, right?”

“That’s what I thought, too!” You slapped Deacy’s arm in your excitement. When we moved in, that’s exactly what I thought. We’re one brass candelabra away from a smashing Baroque party.”

“I’ll bring you an electrical one; we can install it over there, I’d reckon.” He was pointing at a wall sconce that was fairly disappointing; it seemed like an afterthought considering the rest of the decor about the room.

“You were saying?” You asked around your brushing. “About tonight?”

“Can I pick you around 7:00? I’d rather be right on time for this than early. We must make a show of being in control; arriving too early for this seems like a show of weakness.”

“Absolutely,” you said, trying to not think about the recital you should be practicing for, and suddenly very curious just what this business dinner was about. “What should I wear?”

“It’s casual. Nothing serious required.”

You offered him your toothbrush. You had had sex; the jig was up on certain personal boundaries or lines of decorum.

He smiled at the small, deeply intimate gesture, and took you up on your offer. He splashed cool water on his face after he was finished. He skillfully worked his wet hands through his spirally hair.

“Right,” he said, checking his appearance one more time, “let’s get you to Jim before he bars the gates on us both.”

You laughed and took his hand in yours. You walked down the hallway together, curious if Lydia was still sleeping or still home. The hallway’s wallpaper was golden fans, reaching up to the ceiling. Bright greens and blues colored the elaborate, chiseled lines of the paper, and those colors bleed onto the ceiling, making one feel as if they were underwater when the sun was sizzling and heavy. Ripples of light permeated the hall, and it was gloriously distracting; Deacy didn’t know where to look or how to look away from it.

You grabbed your purse from the small, spindly shelf by the front door and scooted Deacy from your apartment; he had been curiously peering this way and that trying to take in as much of your home as he could. It was as if he felt he could see through the closed doors of the hallway, when it was clear he couldn’t, and wanted nothing more than to open each door and seek the next colorful explosion within. It was all vintage inspired and lush with color, ripe with insightful eye decadence. Everything about it smacked of artists and art. It was obvious two very creative individuals lived here, who valued the outer expression of their inner desires and artistic spirits. Deacy was attracted to the sweeping colors and Art Deco flares of the architecture; he was acutely curious how two college-aged women could afford such a small, yet stylish apartment, adorned with such rarefied tastes. He wanted to take hours to explore your home, and the colors and trinkets hiding within, but you were in a hurry, and so the rooms flashed by in pinwheels of color too varied and bright to place at such determined speeds. He couldn’t get enough of your home or you; though he desired to linger, he knew you had a prior engagement and that you were, if nothing else, a woman of your word. Nothing or no one would stop you from making it to your lunch date with Jim Hutton.

Walking down the five story walk-up filled you with memories of your ascent the night before. You and Deacy had played a most attractive game that made the usually lugubrious trek upwards entertaining and undeniably hot. You doubted you’d ever be able to walk these stairs without blushing at the remembrances of things past. You kept thinking of his hands. His lips. His voice in your ear. His breath.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” You asked, attempting to spark his own memories, maybe even negotiate a blush out of him.

Deacy paused on the third floor staircase, and pulling you to him, said, “Without a doubt, as long as you mean to say to you spread out on that landing behind us…”

He wasn’t blushing. His green-gray eyes pierced yours; it was a challenge.

“Right,” you said, blushing.

“It’s okay,” he said, squeezing your hand reassuringly, “We can, if you’re willing, go to my home tonight. Less staircases to be risque in since neither of us can control ourselves.”

You smiled up at him, “I’d like that.”

He kissed you quickly, and you both started down the stairs once again. Whipping colors of lilacs and saffrons and teals fanning out behind your every step.

Outside, John Deacon flicked his keys from his pocket, unlocked your door, then his own. He started his green Mercedes-Benz; smiling at you, put her into gear and drove off towards Garden Lodge.

“What kind of mysterious plans do you have for the rest of the day?” You asked, genuinely curious at what the day-to-day life of Deacy looked like. You had a hand resting on his knee, not trying to be distracting, but more because you were having problems keeping your hands to yourself. This was going to be a problem, but what a problem to have, you figured.

“I try, when I’m home, to not make too many plans. When we’re touring everything is so formally booked and prearranged; it is maddening. I might get groceries, read a book. Nap. Skydiving?”

“The whole gamut, then?”

“Precisely.” He laughed. “Jim is one of the best people I’ve ever met.” Deacy offered after a relaxing silence.

“I don’t know him very well–I don’t know any of you very well, yet–but I had the same impression of him.”

“He’s thoroughly dedicated to Freddie; I admire and respect that about him. That kind of partnership means a great deal to me.”

“I can see that,” you said, gliding your hand through the passing air outside the car. The top was down, and you hair was billowing in the wind, and you felt beautiful and enviable, even. You wondered if people passing by seeing you were curious who the young woman with John Deacon was. How could they not? He was recognizable and attractive. And the man was driving a green car, for fuck’s sake. Flashy and hard to miss, but only on his terms.

Faster than anticipated, you arrived at Garden Lodge. Deacy came around to your side of the car, and helped you out into the sunny day. “Let me show you in?” His eyes were sparkling in the light.

“Absolutely,” you took his arm, considering the sad idea you’d wake up soon and this would all be a dream. The balloon string, you thought. You touched it, and remembered the promise you made Deacy. That string would be your anchor.

He took you back through the garden gate, the delphiniums whispered to you in deep blues and alluring purples. Deacy opened the door, and walked you into the kitchen.

It was the only room of the entire colossal home that seemed sleek and modern. Perhaps it was all the appliances, or the silver and red color scheme; for whatever reason it felt like something from a pulp science fiction novel.

“Jim?” Deacy shouted into the room.

“I swear if that’s you, Roger Taylor, you need to sober up someplace else.” Came Jim’s voice from the adjoining room. “We’ve been here before, what with your drunken shenanigans. Not today. I’m expecting a guest.” Jim’s hand entered the room first. It was pointing, powerfully and scrappily at the door you had just entered from; it was the gestural equivalent of back off, go right back where you came, get out. The rest of Jim emerged through the shockingly yellow dining room. He wore a grey v-neck, and the most unexpected pair of extremely wide-leg slate blue satin pants.

He saw your eyes stuck on his pants, which left little to the imagination, but fit perfectly, as if they had been tailored to him; he shook his head at you, and sighed; that sigh said he didn’t want to get into it right now.

Jim smiled at Deacy, who stood next to you, as close as he could get, carefully not touching you while appearing to “accidentally” brush up against your hand, or shoulder, or leg.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Jim said, taking your hands and pulling you into a generous hug.

Letting you go, he reached over and kissed Deacy on the cheek. Jim looked between you two, trying to guess the landscape of your night after leaving the party. He had some ideas; your body language said a lot: you were trying to be respectful of Jim’s presence, and not fuck each other right here in from of him. You both were entirely in sync, even breathing in unison. It was grotesque and cute all at once.

“Thank you for escorting Y/N here, Johnny. You can go now.” With a wave of his hands, he dismissed John Deacon. Jim slipped an arm around your waist and began dragging you into the dining room without further ado. You had no say in this anticlimactic goodbye.

You looked back to see Deacy grinning at you. He gave you a quick wink before retreating out through the garden. He didn’t seem the least bit concerned, in fact, knowing Jim, he probably suspected something like this occurring.

“Tea? Coffee? Biscuits?”

“Yes, please!” You said, sitting at an ornate dark-wooden table. It felt medieval, and did not match the Japanese-inspired decor of the rest of the room. This was place for feasting, and so it needed to be hardy, robust, striking. The yellow paint was so cheery, it was impossible to not smile in the room. Geisha fans adorned the walls, no doubt given personally to Freddie by the beautiful painted artistic goddess of Gion themselves. Delicate sake sets rested the in too English built-in shelving of the room. Various dishes with ornate Asian inspired patterns graced the shelves, too. A huge jade dragon statue rested on the floor, casually, just hanging out, though it must have cost an actual fortune. On the other side of the room a giant jade tiger guarded the exit to another room. A vibrant series of kimonos depicting the sky at various times of day and night hung on the wall; it utilitarian art in its best representation. A crystal chandelier hung above the table; you wondered how many chandeliers Freddie and Jim had in this marvelous place.

“Now,” Jim said, pouring you a cup of tea, “let’s get down to business.” He passed you the turquoise-colored cup, and continued to pour one of his own. He placed the plate of biscuits between you two. You sat, not across from each other, but nestled around one of the corners of the black table.

“I was born ready, Jim.” You smiled at him behind your teacup.

“How good was the sex?” It was a casual question, especially innocent-sounding in his Irish accent.

You put your teacup down, giggling and blushing as brightly red as the kitchen.

“That good?” Jim put his teacup down, too. His voice had an edge; not unkind, not supportive, but curious against his will now, and doubtful, maybe?

Did he think you were lying? You couldn’t tell just by his tone, but something about it was suspended, mistrusting.

You nodded in response, sure your voice would easily betray your inner suspicions.

“I was honestly just guessing.” Jim said, looking concerned and meekly hopeful all at once. He sounded unsure of what to say next, “I mean, I’m gobsmacked at the notion.”

You leaned in, you and Jim already had a great rapport, like two old friends, swapping the stories of the day. “Why so? I feel like it was pretty clear to everyone at the party we were unreservedly into each other.”

“I’m sure blind people knew you were heading in the same direction, so to speak. I mean, he even threatened Roger away from you, which was also shocking, honestly. Funny and shocking.” Jim smiled at the memory of Roger’s expression at being told to back away from a woman by Deacy. Priceless.

“I’m not surprised you had sex,” he elaborated. “I am surprised he was able to this soon.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, curious against your will; everything appeared to be in perfectly working order.

“Oh, I don’t mean his dick, dear.” Jim waved at hand at you. “More that he really hasn’t been actively or passively having anything with anyone for an embarrassingly long time, now.”

“Oh?” You asked, suddenly very curious and no longer incredulous. “Is he more the kind of person to take things slowly?” You felt like maybe you had forced something out of Deacy then, that maybe he hadn’t been ready and you had bewitched him. Though, looking back, it didn’t seem like that, it hadn’t felt like that.

“Not particularly. Not remotely, really.” It felt like Jim was choosing his words very carefully. “Well, he didn’t used to be before…” Jim’s voice trailed off in a way you didn’t particularly like; this wasn’t forced dramatics, but just a reluctance that wasn’t true to your prior experiences of Jim, who was typically exceedingly frank and spoke without flashy adornments. 

“Before…?” You asked, your heart rate increasing with each passing second, and each second lasted a year of time.

“Before his wife–”

“Wait–he’s married?” The words came out of you as a pained whisper. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t see. Everything, including time, sped up to punch you in the gut. What had you done? What had they all let happen? Were you part of some joke you hadn’t known about this entire time? Some game? You couldn’t breathe. You needed to get out of here. You were cold. Everything was suddenly so cold.

“No,” Jim said, taking your hand in his. “She died.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bring it back, bring it back…

Jim Hutton remembered holding John Deacon’s hand. Jim’s hands were larger, and they easily encapsulated John’s hand without flash, effort, or tricks of the light. He kept seeing that snapshot, while looking at your surprised face: he saw the black, elegant fabric of John’s blazer, tailored to perfection, the black french cuff of his button-down, but, mostly, what Jim saw were the gaudy emerald cuff links Veronica had given John. He saw John’s hand, his wrist, thin and pale, his tense thighs, and the new suit he’d never wear again. John couldn’t take his eyes off those cuff links, and that twisted a barbed spike deep in Jim’s heart; it was a keen, silent suffering, it was hail falling on deaf ears, it was that nightmare where you were being pursued but couldn’t scream, it was heartbreak, and Jim would never forget it. He couldn’t stop staring at them, with his red eyes, tired from lack of sleep. Jim was pretty sure John hadn’t slept more than 10 hours in the past week. He wasn’t sure John would ever sleep again.

Jim was holding John’s hand. Freddie had been on the other side of John, clasping his other hand. Freddie was tapping out comforting melodies on John’s palm, trying to lure him into some reaction, any reaction. Freddie was the first person John had called. Their bond had always been surprisingly tight, secure, and unbreakable. Freddie could lift the tapestry of shyness from John, get him dancing, laughing, and flirting in ways Veronica hadn’t even been capable of; and John could go head-to-head with Freddie in any insult or shade challenge–especially if they were on the same team, and John, a ride or die romantic, had been the first person to publicly defend Jim and Freddie’s romance. Which made this moment all the more difficulty poignant and utterly devastating.

“I don’t know if I can find the words to describe it,” Jim said to you. “The effect it had on me, on the band, on Johnny.” He had tears in his brown eyes. You squeezed his hand, thinking of Deacy, and how it was quickly becoming his signature move in your mind. And how hollow it seemed now, squeezing Jim’s hand; the weight of the room had changed. Yellow was supposed to be a happy color, but now it seemed suffocating.

He called Freddie first. Freddie had picked up the phone, laughing into it. Jim had been telling him some joke, or some funny story; he didn’t remember the details, only that Freddie had been laughing when he picked up the phone’s receiver. A full laugh, with his whole body, all teeth and cheeks, contagious joy in only the way Freddie was capable of spreading. Jim leaned into Freddie, kissed his neck, curious who was on the other line. Then, as if out of nowhere, like the power going out, or a sun shower, Jim felt Freddie’s body stiffen; he collapsed into the chair he had been standing near, and froze, listening.

“I knew something had happened, Y/N.” Jim wiped a few tears from his cheeks. One lingered in his mustache, and you couldn’t look at anything else. “But I didn’t know what, or who Freddie was talking to, but I desperately wanted to know; because whatever had happened had just changed everything.” 

Jim could feel the calluses on John’s fingers. His own hands were rough from a lifetime of working, not making art. And yet, regardless of their nonsensical, pointless, yet obvious class divide, here they both were, experiencing one of the only guarantees life had to offer. John’s hands were shaking; Jim and Freddie kept surreptitiously exchanging concerned glances. They were thinking the same thing with each glace; if you ever died, I’d surely die, too. John’s hands were shaking, and his grey eyes couldn’t leave those cuff links.

A pair of hands reached from behind to hug John’s shoulders. They lingered, and Jim could see on his periphery a blond head just delicately resting on John’s. Their hair mingled, Roger waited, breathing slowly, trying to transfer his rhythm over to his dearest friend. Roger’s emotional strength, fortitude, and prowess were precisely and desperately what John required. Though, nothing was working. Nothing was helping. Roger let go, though it was clear he did not want to, but he had been given the hardest task of the day; he had been trusted with it by John; there simply was no one else for the job. Boisterous, rowdy, and a prodigious cad Roger Taylor might be, but he was also expertly delicate, unsuspectingly shrewd, and the most empathetic person any of them had ever met.

“Roger is lousy at, oh, 85% of commitments, but when he is really needed, when everything is the most dire and vital, he delivers like no one else can.” Jim cleared his throat, and took a careful sip of tea, thinking how best to continue.

Freddie was clutching the phone. He hadn’t said anything yet. Jim took Freddie’s hand, troubled more than curious now. They were two hands holding. Freddie sniffed and started silently sobbing, “John,” he said; it was all Jim could make out. Jim began wiping his lover’s tears away with his pocket square, emerald like the cuff links John would be wearing that Veronica had given to him on no special occasion, just because she could, when his hands would be shaking, on the day when he would be wearing the new black suit he’d later bury deep in his backyard, next to the dog of theirs that had died the year before.

“John,” Freddie said, again, trying to sound strong, trying to sound in control, “Don’t move, darling; Jim and I will be there in a flash.” He hung up the phone and leaned into Jim. Tears fell down both of their cheeks; Jim couldn’t help crying when others were, even if he didn’t know why they were upset himself.

“Freddie, what’s happened to John?”

“Veronica was in an accident.” He managed to say. Freddie pulled away from Jim, looking him in the eyes. “If you ever,” his voice stuck in his throat, unable to speak, only hearing John’s confused, wounded howls that had greeted Freddie from the other end of the phone—howls he’d never be able to forget—Freddie gazed at Jim with sharp focus. He swallowed hard, and said, “If you ever left, I wouldn’t make it. It sounds melodramatic, dear, but there you have it.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you silly man.” Jim said finally. He took a steadying breath, and asked, “Freddie, I’m scared; you need to tell me what happened to Veronica?”

“She died.” Freddie told Jim.

“She died?” You asked, still in shock.

“Yes,” said Jim, fresh tears brimming over his eyes. “She died, oh, three years ago, now. Enough time will never pass.”

Roger, wearing an understated black suit, made his way to the podium. He hated everything about this. He hated what he was wearing, he hated why they were all here, but what he hated most was the look in John’s eyes. He wasn’t present, in his eyes, John wasn’t there. He was time traveling, stuck in a hell of his own making, thinking of every past moment, doing everything he could to deny the reality of his present and future. Roger wanted to take John’s suffering away; Roger could take it, he could survive it–fuck, he’d weather it with style. But John–of all of them–he didn’t deserve this. This wasn’t fair. If Roger had a wife, he’d sacrifice her for John. If it meant he could keep Veronica and the light would return to his dull eyes, Roger would cut off his hands for John to make it happen.

It was standing room only, as Roger surveyed the cavernous church. Though, even the aisles were bursting with friends, colleagues, and loved ones. This was the most private event Roger would ever perform at. And it was a performance, because more than anything, Roger wanted to vomit in the nearest flower display and drown himself in a case of the communion wine, but he would be John’s rock; he wouldn’t show his nerves or his sorrow.

“‘Time healing all wounds is the biggest lie they tell you; time doesn’t heal nothing; you heal yourself by doing the works.’” Jim said, a sad smile on his face. “That’s how he opened the eulogy; he knew exactly what to say, but he always does. It was, to this date, the only time I’ve ever seen Roger cry. Publicly, and without shame. It surprised us all, to be honest. He hides that heart of his under twenty thousand leagues of sea.”

“For those of you who don’t know, I introduced John and Veronica.” Roger’s voice halted, then. He looked at John, waiting for his friend to return his gaze. He did, slowly, and grey eyes met blue. “I am,” Roger said, “so sorry. I shouldn’t have.” Roger’s eyes glowed sapphire bright as tears welled and slipped down his face. “I will always blame myself for why we are all here today; it is my fault. If you have to blame someone,” he said, staring at John, “blame me. Don’t blame yourself,” he said to John, and only to John, “Never blame yourself, and don’t blame her. She’d be here if she could; she never missed one of my performances after all.”

“Funeral laughter is the worst,” Jim told you, “desperate and unsure. But if anyone could make a crowd laugh at a funeral, it was Roger Taylor.”

Jim remembered feeling John’s body shake, but not with laughter. At least not with genuine laughter; he had been hysterical. There was simply no other word for it. He and Freddie had arrived at the hospital, and they were led to John, who was in one of those terrible rooms they put you when the news is bad.

“They won’t let me see her.” He kept laughing, like it was a joke only he understood. He kept saying it, over and over, as if he were trying to explain the easy words to a child who wasn’t comprehending their meaning. “They won’t let me see her!” Jim walked over to John, who was pacing, and wouldn’t stop even when Jim put a hand on his shoulder. “They won’t let me see her.”

Freddie looked at the doctor, fear was in his brown eyes, and something like anger; he didn’t know how long John had been like this and they weren’t doing anything to help his friend. How long had he been alone in this little room?

“Why won’t they let you see her, Johnny?” Jim asked, tenderly.

“‘The state of her body.’ The state of her…body.” He was running a shaking hand through his hair. “Crushed or something? Not entirely extracted from between her car…and the other car.” He sounded unsure, like he didn’t believe what he was saying, what he had heard, what he had been told. “Her body? Her body? They said body?” He looked at the doctor, frantically. “She’s not a body! That’s what they say about someone who’s dead.”

Jim looked back at Freddie, then; something in John had completely broken. Jim saw tears of outrage, worry, and a terrible pitying compassion rise in his husband’s eyes. Jim slowly backed away from John.

“I need to make a call,” he said to Freddie. “Do you have this?”

“What, darling?” Freddie was entirely distracted by this scene; John was still pacing, and Freddie was tracking him like cat, readying himself to pounce if need be.

“Freddie!” Jim said loudly, he put his hands on Freddie’s cheeks to force him to pay attention.

“I’m here.”

“You need to watch him; I’m going to get Roger.”

“Yes, darling; the doctors can keep doing fuck-all; I’ve got this.” He waved his hand in his signature flourish.

“As far as I’m concerned Veronica was the only good thing about John,” Roger was saying. He tried a smile, but it didn’t work, even with the funeral laughter escalating. “She had all of his best qualities, and none of his bad ones. Though Veronica said all the time John was perfect–maybe for no one else but her. And good God, she was right; no one else understood him until her. Not like anyone else wanted to.”

Jim felt John’s body rock back and forth. Roger’s speech stalled, as he saw John stand up. Perhaps it was Roger’s intuition, or that he knew John so well, either way, he followed his gut, and started wrapping up his speech abruptly. “Right! Veronica, what’s left to say about someone so capable of rendering men speechless–”

John wrenched his hands away from Freddie and Jim, stumbling wildly at a running pace down the aisle aimlessly towards the exit. The only thought in his head was of escaping. Brian stood, making to intercept him, and was cut short by a chaotic blond blur racing past him, shoving him out of the way of his single-minded goal. Roger had leaped down from the pedestal like a panther, and chased after John at an all out sprint. It wasn’t funny, but it was. Under the morbid circumstances, it was the funniest thing any of them had seen all week. Jim and Brian smiled faintly at each other; it was the most Roger-esque departure they could have imagined: end on a one-liner and run for the exit. Freddie was the first one to laugh about it. It was a quiet giggle at first, clear and melodic, undeniably Freddie’s. Unable to stop themselves, Jim and Brian joined in, unashamed and unafraid their laughter echoed around the church; it was possibly inappropriate, maybe in bad taste, but it was the first genuine laughter they’d had together in the past week, and as they laughed a little portion of the vice-like grip of tension around their hearts began to lift.

Jim had tried calling Roger from a payphone outside the hospital, but he hadn’t answered. Roger had some habitual haunts, record stores, clubs, fucking car dealerships–time was of the essence. Jim collected his thoughts. This wasn’t an easy task. Wherever he closed his eyes, he kept seeing John pacing, desperately trying to understand how Veronica was now reduced to being just a body, and not his wife. Jim started the car, shaking away fresh tears. He needed to focus and find Roger. The tears could and would wait.

Pulling up outside Roger’s home was a no go—his Alfa Romeo wasn’t there. This was useful information, however; Jim knew which car to search for, his goddess in red. By far, she was the easiest of all his cars to find; flashy and bright. Next, Jim tried Roger’s favorite basement record store; also no luck there.

“It was the afternoon, Roger might be just waking up,” Jim told you between bites of a biscuit, “So, I don’t know why or what possessed me to go there, but there was this hole-in-the-wall diner Roger went to while the band was still waiting to make their first big break.”

The look on Roger’s face when he talked about the diner was always one of nostalgia; it was the look of a man recalling what it was like to go out in public and not be recognized. When Jim pulled up to the diner, Roger’s goddess in red was parked across the street. Jim silently thanked St. Anthony, and his blessed Irish mother, and ran into the diner, but Roger wasn’t there. As quickly as he had entered, he left, standing still outside, thinking.

The top was up.

“The top had been up, you see.” Jim explained.

Jim ran over to the car, and banged on the driver’s side window.

Roger turned his back to Jim.

“Oh you can’t outrun me you good for nothing blond rotter.” Jim yelled into the street, banging even harder on the car’s window.

“I’m sleeping one off, Jim.” Roger growled.

“There are homeless people sleeping on the streets, and here you are sleeping one off in your fucking car, and you own four homes; go sleep it off in one of them.”

“Thanks, Jim; Los Angeles does sound nice this time of year.” Roger begrudgingly rolled down the window of his red Alfa Romeo. He looked at Jim’s face, but couldn’t see it, nonetheless he could tell something was wrong. He fished around the passenger seat for his glasses–black circles tinted yellow–and put them on. Jim’s eyes were puffy, red, dark circles, dried tears. “What the bloody hell has happened?!”

Roger ran into the little room, Jim following hard behind. John was standing in the corner, arms wrapped around himself, staring dead into some vacant space only grief could occupy. Freddie met Jim and Roger at the doorway.

“He wouldn’t let me near him, dearies.” Freddie said. “So, I just sang to him–any silly old tune that popped into my head, which sort of calmed him down, I think. He stopped pacing at least.” Jim wrapped his arms around Freddie, and they stood there, hugging.

“Right, I’ve got this.” Roger slowly walked over to John. “John?”

He didn’t respond.

“John?” Roger asked, again.

Still nothing.

“John, do you know what’s happened?”

His grey eyes met Roger’s blue ones.

“Do you?” His voice was molasses, a dark basement, the feeling of being pursued, his voice was the hairs on the back of your neck standing up for no apparent reason, but you’d learn about the reason when you least expected it.

“I do, yes.” Roger’s voice was steady, firm. He could play this game; fuck, he had invented this game. He took another step closer to him.

John’s body tensed, his eyes glared into Roger’s, his fists balled; he was breathing for a fight. Anything to not think, Roger figured. He took another step closer, shrinking the distance drastically.

“Say it.” Roger challenged.

John didn’t respond.

“Say it!” Roger commanded.

Nothing.

“What? you want to hit me?”

A twitch.

“Will that help you? Because if it will, hit me.” Roger took his glasses off, tossed them to Jim. He took his grey blazer off, and tossed that to Freddie.

“Here–hit me.” With the glasses off, his eyes were piercing and moist; Roger was crying, it was a private cry, meant for an audience of one, meant to be witnessed by John only. “Please, go ahead. Whatever you need. I’m here.”

John made his move. He was fast, but Roger was faster. He grabbed John’s arms, and pinned him against the wall, hard.

Roger slapped John on the face.

“Wait–” you said, wiping tears of your own away, “Roger slapped him?”

“Yes,” Jim answered. “It was the support he needed, and only Roger could see it; for such a blind melon, he sees more than the rest of us.”

Roger slapped John, again.

The sound snapped through the small room.

Freddie and Jim, breathing in unison, froze.

Roger slapped John, yet again.

Roger raised a blond eyebrow at John, holding his arms, pressing his body into the wall. Cardio and drumming: he could hold John with force for hours if need be. No matter what, he’d be there for John. If this was what he needed, he’d do it, never question it, and embrace it.

And that’s when John started to cry.

He gave up his ineffectual struggles against Roger’s drumming strength.

John folded himself into Roger’s body.

Roger held him, silently crying, feeling John’s sobs shake their bodies.

“She’s dead.” John said.

“Yes.”

“She’s dead.”

“Yes.”

“She’s not coming back.”

“No, she’s not.”

There was a knock on the door, then.

Brian entered the room with one of the useless doctors.

“This will be indelicate,” Brain said, “So, they’ve asked me to say it.”

Roger swiveled on the spot, lifting John, so he was facing the wall, and Roger was able to face Brian.

He continued, “They’re ready for someone to identify the body.”

“Did you need to tackle me so hard? In the street? In front of the bloody cameras?” John was two shots in, holding a white napkin to his forehead.

Roger, next to him, also two shots in, said, “You really left me no choice. Leaving your own funeral like that.”

“It wasn’t my funeral. Might as well as been, though.” John signaled to the bartender for another round. “And how you chased down the photographers and what? How did you put it?”

“I think it was ‘I’ll set your mother on fire and fuck your brother, if you don’t destroy that film.’”

They laughed together, wiping tears away.

“What are we on now? Right–Veronica’s legs.” They clinked their glasses together, and downed their their shot of tequila. John checked the cut on his forehead. “Really, though: Never seen someone surrender their camera so fast in my life.”

“Could have had Miami pay them off, but that was more fun for me.” Roger smirked, and singled for another round. “Looking good, mate; that shiner really improves your manly charms.”

“I don’t really feel it anymore; my personal thanks to whoever invented tequila.”

“Right,” Roger said passing John shot number four, “Veronica’s thighs.”

“Veronica’s thighs.” John repeated, downing his shot. “Miami told me he’d been paying off every newspaper from writing about it.” Tears threatened John’s eyes once more. He had, more or less, become accustomed to crying in public now.

“That was Brian’s idea.” Roger explained.

“Good man, Bri.”

“The best. Second only to me.” Roger waved to the bartender, “Mate, leave the bottle, and bring a second.”

“I suppose the others will find us eventually.” John said, pouring the next round. “Veronica’s dimples when she smiled.”

“None better.” Roger toasted and swallowed his shot.

“I’ll do it,” Roger said, holding John’s shaking body. “Brian, would you take him from me? I’ll be back straight away.”

Brain crossed the room, and took John in his arms.

“Oh, if he starts denying it again, just slap him once across the face; worked wonders for me.”

“You knew the deceased?” The doctor asked. They were standing in a room Roger would never forget. Metallic, small, cold. A body was resting under a white sheet.

“Yes, since university.”

“I must warn you, it is graphic.”

“That’s why I’m here and the husband isn’t.” He said simply. “He shouldn’t remember her like this. Let’s get on with it.”

The doctor lifted up the sheet.

Roger flinched. “Yes, that’s her.”

The doctor replaced the sheet.

Roger poured the next shot of tequila. They had lost count, and hadn’t been discovered yet by the rest of the band. They were on the second bottle, though. They were two friends commiserating, saluting, sharing.

“I never thanked you…” John’s voice trailed off.

“Don’t.” Roger grasped John’s hand. “Never do.” He let go of his hand, and grabbed his shot. “Veronica’s ass?”

“None better.” John smiled, sadly.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Jim dress up after dressing each other down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is on-going fic, if you've gotten this far. I update maybe twice a week on my tumblr, then I'll add it here if there's interest.

You needed a drink. Everything Jim had told you danced around your mind like a whirling dervish. You didn’t know what to think about your time with John Deacon anymore. Maybe that was too specific, even: you didn’t know what to think anymore. It wasn’t as if you thought the world wasn’t this inherently good place, by any means, but nothing tragic had ever really happened to you; a broken heart, an ended relationship, a failing grade didn’t really seem to land anywhere near being as terrible as what happened to Deacy. Nothing about it seemed fair. Nothing about it was fair. Even three years after the fact of Veronica’s death, you wondered how he was able to be up and about at all. You were certain if your partner had died, quite suddenly, and exceptionally too young for that kind of thing, you’d want to be buried right next to them. You’d close the coffin on the both of you and surrender to nothingness. You couldn’t imagine being able to feel anything again–especially having feelings for another person. It would always seem risky, unpredictable, and worrisome; what if they died, too? They could, they had before, at anytime anyone could die, and that was the most chilling fact of life ever, you thought. Perhaps, it was knowing that secret we strive to deny most that allowed Deacy to want to try again?

It was another paradox, to be sure. If death made you realize anything it was what mattered most and how you wanted to live your life; everything becomes clear, genuine, meaningful in ways life just hadn’t previously. Maybe it was too optimistic, or existentialist, but he had found some way of going on with his life; he was still here, creating, and putting himself out there, and whatever those reasons were for doing so, he had them and kept them close. They were, you figured, his life preserver. You felt like you needed one after that story. Adrift at sea, you kept reminding yourself to not feel jealous, or unduly neglected or deliberately deceived. This, you thought, was doubt. You were doubting everything now. And that’s what hurt the most. It wasn’t that he himself hadn’t told you; when would have been appropriate to do so during the party and afterwards anyway? What did hurt was the doubt. As Jim had told you Deacy’s heartbreaking story, you had begun to doubt the meaning of your time together. And doubt was the worst, most deadly kind of poison.

You had doubted during the party, but you knew that was your own anxiety trying to win you over, trying to trick you into old ways and dark paths of self-doubt and insecurity. You and beaten it back successfully, and you knew–you knew–instinctively, or just by experience that he really cared about you, especially after this morning. He did at the party, but after you had been intimate, something had changed; it always did, one way or another after sex. It had been imperceptible, you figured, but something about him had relaxed. You hadn’t been able to put your finger on it at the time, but now you had so much new and privileged information you couldn’t help but connect the dots.

“Y/N?” Jim inquired.

You realized you hadn’t said anything since Jim had finished talking.

“I need a minute, Jim. And something stronger, if you have it?” You pointed to your tea, who had been doing the job earlier, had been equal to the task, but it just wouldn’t cut it anymore.

Jim, personally, couldn’t agree more with your need for the stronger stuff. He could also understand your current predicament. He had lived through it after all, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to hear it. It would seem unbelievable at worst, and pitiful at best. Like Roger, Jim would do what he had to do to protect John. He stood, and retreated into the kitchen. His pants were ridiculous, slate blue and satin. Who had done that to him, you wondered? It didn’t seem like a choice the pragmatic Jim would make himself. His retreating ass had been quite spectacular in them, and you had to remind yourself he was already spoken for, a married man, and not remotely into women.

“I know you’re thinking about my arse in these pants.” Jim’s voice boomed to you from the kitchen. You heard a loud pop! And had the feeling he had opened a bottle of champagne. He returned with two flutes, the bottle, and some apple juice.

“They’re…something else!” You said, trying to not laugh, and hoping that came off as a compliment.

“That’s one word for them. I have several others.” He started pouring the champagne and apple juice mimosas for each of you. “Satan’s own pants for starters.”

You laughed unexpectedly; Jim was terribly witty and unafraid to say whatever was on his mind, and considered it for the good of everyone when he did so. You liked this about him, for you knew he’d never lie to you to spare your feelings, or let you off the hook. He was a genuine friend. A true rarity.

“The devil’s legwork?” You suggested.

“I like you.” Jim said, clinking his glass against yours. “Death on two legs, if I ever saw one.”

You sipped your mimosas, putting off the inevitable. “Freddie gave them to me.” Jim elaborated.

“Height of good taste those are…” You bit your lip and gave Jim a wry side-eye.

Jim sighed loudly, “He ran out of chic options a couple years ago.”

“So,” you started, ready to face the music.

“So,” Jim agreed.

You stared at each other, his brown eyes betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.

“Do you understand why I told you?”

“I think so,” you said.

“Well let me tell you so.” Jim said, and there was finality to his tone that you hadn’t heard before. “I love Johnny. He’s been through more than most people his age. You’re not meant to lose your spouse at 27. At least when you’re older life has kicked you down enough you know how to cope with tragedy. He changed after that.”

“Naturally; anyone would.” You agreed.

“He took what fragments remained of his heart and put them into the band. If he hadn’t had them–us–I’m sure he would have just faded away, picked up and left forever without fuss or looking back.”

“It would be hard to blame him if he had runaway”

“I agree. We all took turns having him live with us; he couldn’t go back to the house they had shared. Some things are beyond grief, beyond coherent words, and that place that was so full of her filled him with unspeakable regret. Slowly, he returned to us, but he wasn’t fully there.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, well, he played, he joked, he danced even, but he was going through the motions of life, luxerizing in the bland routine; he wasn’t really invested, not really living–and maybe he didn’t want to, not fully.”

“Was he suicidal?”

“No, not particularly; there’s a keen difference between wanting to die and actively not living your life. Yes, his wife had died, and he missed her, might always miss her, but he knew he couldn’t follow her. It was anathema to him. Her death wasn’t reason enough to die himself.”

“He’s stubborn.”

“You’ve got the sand of him, yes.” Jim said, smiling broadly at you. “He’d never give in that easily.”

“I like that about him,” you admitted.

“So do I. I like him very much. When I say that what I mean is this: I would do anything for him. We all would. Especially Roger; after what happened he grew bizarrely protective of him in ways he’s been with no one.”

“I could see that.”

“What I mean to say is, if you’ve heard all this, and are…intimidated by it, if you think you can’t commit to him knowing his history, if you think you’ll abandon him down the line, please, Y/N, leave now.”

You breathed.

“Leave him now before this gets any bigger, before feelings get any larger, because…” Jim’s lips were shaking under his mustache, and he had tears in his eyes again, “because you’ve brought him back to life in less than 24 hours, and if you don’t plan on being here, do him a kindness, and leave now; he couldn’t take the heartbreak again. I know it is a tremendous amount of pressure to put on a person; but, we all have that little voice, do you know what I mean?”

You stared at Jim, waiting.

“We all have that wee voice in our heads, in our hearts that we do what we can to ignore at the beginnings of every romance. That little voice that knows if it’s a good idea or a bad idea to pursue it; listen to yours whatever yours is telling you, that’s all I ask. Don’t ignore it.”

What was your voice telling you? You traveled inwards, then. What would be useful here? Not the doubt, the doubt wasn’t fair, it was a trap, a mirage of an answer. It was a duck decoy and it wouldn’t sway you away from examining your heart and head. You let yourself go, drifting into memory, letting your heart take you where you were meant to go; you’d listen to that little voice, and see where it had to take you.

You saw a pair of grey-green eyes. Gazing at you from across a crowded room. You couldn’t breathe, you remembered that. He had literally taken your breath away. With one look he had disarmed you, and squirreled his way into your desires. That you knew for sure: you desired John Deacon. Was desire enough? You thought not. So, you let yourself travel further.

You were two hands holding, then. And that feeling had added another layer. You hadn’t realized it at the time, of course. Holding hands with a relative stranger had changed the entire course of your life. He guessed intimate details about your life, and you had leaned into him, and he hadn’t backed down. Surely, a power trip for you both. You connected then, at a primal level; a small truth about who you both were had be exchanged then, in that moment. You knew you both had a backbone and you weren’t afraid to use it, that maybe you even liked to use it. He was confident, confident enough to want a successful woman. Fundamentally, you matched, perhaps.

Deeper deeper, let’s see: the pantry, and your first kiss. Magic or nothing? You and Lydia had promised each other you’d only go after someone who offered you everything and ignore those who offered only their own proclivities or needs. Deacy wasn’t the kind of man who only wanted his own joy; your joy, sexual or not, mattered fully to him in a way that was unknown to your previous experiences of love.

Of love? That’s a dangerous word. Or is it? Sure, it had been under 24 hours, as Jim had noted, but what did that little voice tell you? Could you love Deacy? Could you see yourself with him?

You thought of the bed, the bed you had shared with Lydia, Brian, Freddie, Jim, and Deacy. Your slip of the tongue rang out in your mind. It had been bold and very telling of your inner feelings, and he had liked it. And his reaction, where it could have been quite aggressive, was anything but: it had been tender, accepting, respectful. Come to think of it, even when you had been fooling around and fooling with your mutually desired light power-play, he had been nothing but tender, accepting, and respectful, whilst also being undeniably sexy, giving you what you wanted, and being commanding, in charge. The same went for the staircase. You had traded desires and positions and unspoken directional power with ease, care, and compassion. You were compatible, deeply.

Compatibility, however, wasn’t love. But it was functionally imperative to any romantic relationship that had sex as a part of it. Compatibility couldn’t be taught. And you had learned the hard way sexual incompatibility killed relationships faster than infidelity or lying; in fact, it was ignored sexual incompatibility that frequently led to cheating and lying in the first place. You wouldn’t settle for anything less than being on the same page regarding that anymore.

How about the sex itself? Not the compatibility of it, but how it had made you feel? Safe, satisfied, loved. Deeply comfortable, absolutely cherished, treasured. Which was even more fantastic knowing Deacy’s history; he was able to open himself up, pull away the stitches one by one from his heart, and allow himself to be vulnerable with you. Which, in turn, had made you feel capable of being vulnerable with him. This wasn’t just any old turn of the cards; this was rare. True vulnerability could take years to foster, could never mature, or fester and die. Yet you and Deacy had found a morsel of it and decided to take a risk and see if it could grow.

That was noteworthy, surely.

Jim’s story. Well, that had been unexpected, but what about Deacy’s own words? All night and morning he had gone out of his way to make it clear, repeatedly, that he was interested in you. Interested in a way that went far beyond your body or what you could give him. It was a pure interest for its own sake.

You looked at the string around your wrist.

You smiled.

And you knew your answer.

“Jim,” you said, “I am all in.”

He examined your face, making sure your words aligned with your body language.

“Good,” Jim leaned in a kissed your cheek. “Let’s celebrate.”

“I’m all in for that, too.”

Jim stood, took your hand, and said, “Bring the champagne.”

You grabbed the bottle, and let Jim whisk you away into the depths of Garden Lodge. He took you on a path similar to the one you had followed yourself last night. You saw the widow’s walk where you had met Brian May, and the pantry you and Deacy had shared your first kiss. Jim, stopped at another door in that hallway, entered it, and went through to the master bedroom he shared with Freddie.

“What are we doing here? I’m not that kind of girl…” you said to Jim, playfully.

“That’s not what I hear…” Jim retorted, whip-fast, with an exaggerated wink.

You both laughed; some barrier had been broken down between you two this day. You had gone through a battle together and survived, and were instantly made closer because of it.

Jim led you into a section of the massive walk-in closet. You had a sneaky suspicion this closet wasn’t Jim’s, but Freddie’s. It was organized, as far as you could tell, by costumes, day wear, formal wear, and random extras–which included a lot of black leather for some reason. The decor, as with the rest of the lodge–a misnomer if you had ever heard one–was second to none. Though mostly all white–to let the clothes sing, Jim said–it was the height of elegance. Edwardian sofas in pristine patterned white silks made up most of the seating. As if seating in a closet was a priority, there were dainty stools clustered around a table full of makeup. Floor to ceiling mirrors covered the farthest wall, which was preceded by an honest to god runway. It even had proper lighting above it, adequately equipped to debut the next fashion line by the next big designer at the drop of a hat. And speaking of hats, there were so many, all hung up around every inch of the perimeter, like wearing art. Masks, too, adorned the walls from all around the world. A full set of samurai armor, even, rested in a corner, all black and ivory, complete with a devilish mask. Antique men’s suits, vintage dresses, capes, crowns, an astronaut’s outfit, really anything you could have dreamed up rested in this glorious closet. Even a gorilla suit. Leotards in every color. Jeans. So many yellow sweatshirts? And then the designer couture pieces were startling, littered around like kisses. Surely, Hollywood could use this closet as a costume department for every film it has on its current docket. All it needed to be a high-end department store was a cash register.

“Wow,” you said; there was just no other word for the opulence.

“It’s a bit much,” Jim was smiling proudly, “But so is Freddie.”

“You’re a lucky man.”

“Very and every day.”

“You love him entirely, don’t you?”

Jim looked at you, “with everything I am, yes.”

“Then he’s a lucky man, too.”

Jim blushed, “Thank you; now! Let’s dress up.”

“What?” You laughed, a huge smile plastered on your face.

“We have the champagne, we might as well as dress to match.”

“Really?” You felt like a kid in a candy store.

“Entirely. Pick whatever you want.” Jim was reaching for a red cowboy hat and spurs to match.

You didn’t know what to pick first. Your eyes were a blur with colors and costumes from every decade–even a few togas caught your eye. “Is that armour real? Or the genuine article?” You were pointing to a full set of knight’s shiny armor.

“A replication, not the real McCoy like the samurai armor.”

“Right!” You said, taking the fleur de lis breastplate off the display. A larger than life, larger than necessary cotton candy blue floor-length tutu kept distracting you. You had to have it. Next, you looked to the hats, you needed one to finish off the look, but which. There were so many to choose from.

“Might I suggest the pillbox one?” Jim was pointing to a leopard-print pillbox hat.

“Perfection,” You said.

Undressing yourself carefully, you folded your clothes, and placed them on one of the white sofas. The skirt was so large and comical, you couldn’t help laughing looking at yourself in the mirror. Jim helped you into the breastplate, fastening it from behind, he remarked on your tattoos; your back and upper arms were covered with lines of musical notes, connecting and drifting off into each other in only ways that made sense to you.

“You’ve been holding out on us,” he said.

“They’re all from pieces of music that mean something to me.”

Jim smiled, “they’re beautiful. I can’t read music, but if I could, this is surely the way to do it.”

“That’s what Lydia said.”

“I like her, too.”

You nodded, putting on a large pair of yellow diamond earrings and gold strappy knee-length gladiator sandals.

“Roger does, too.”

“You think?”

“Maybe a little too much.” Jim said, thinking.

You put the hat on; looking at yourself in the mirror was a bizarre experience that simultaneously made perfect sense. Only at Freddie’s could something like this take shape, you thought.

You looked at Jim’s reflection: he had put together a cowboy look adorned with a white tailcoat circa the 1880s, a golden glittery muscle shirt, the red cowboy hat, a pair of copper-colored golfing pants, and red patent leather tap shoes with the red spurs attached to them. Mardi Gras had thrown up on you both. You clinked your glasses together, quite pleased with yourselves.

That’s when, in the mirror, you saw Freddie Mercury standing behind you both.

He was smiling ear to ear looking at the both of you.

Jim, looking somewhat sheepish, raised an eyebrow at his husband.

Freddie had on a tight pair of jeans and an over-large yellow sweatshirt. He looked at the two of you for a moment longer, thinking.

In that moment, he loved you both dearly.

Freddie walked over to a mannequin, grabbed a ten foot hot pink feather boa from it, wrapped it around his shoulders, took a swig of champagne from the bottle, and sat on one of the sofas.

He said, with a wave of his hand, “Well, as you were, darlings.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My new purple shoes…

What is color? Roger knew there was some schmaltzy science behind it. No matter how many times it was explained to him, color wasn’t anything scientific, and it never would be. Those kinds of definitions were too rigid. He was instinctively suspicious of anything or anyone lacking feeling, and clear-cut scientific definitions were at the forefront of his misgivings. It was probably why he made such a poor biologist himself; not that he wasn’t smart enough for it; no, rather, he didn’t trust anything that painted the world in such black and white terms. He didn’t trust anything that was merely black and white. Black and white.

He just didn’t trust it.

Wouldn’t trust it.

Couldn’t.

For Roger, color was art, feeling, expression. For Roger, color was life. Color was living. It was inherently alive. You couldn’t look at a rose and think it wasn’t alive, as bursting with it as it was the color red. You couldn’t think of a single color and not link it to a specific memory. For Roger, he couldn’t think of the color orange without thinking of a dress his mother wore when he had been a child, which led him to the shape of her hands, and how she always smelled of vanilla, and how she would bring him cookies while he did his homework, and would always help him prank his father. None of this had to do with the color orange; and yet, all of it had to do with his memory of the color orange. So, in a sense, when he thought of color being life, what he meant was that color made up the interior of our memories like our words make up the interior of books. Each color had a feeling, and those feelings linked to whatever memories those colors inhibited for each of us. It was life. Color was life.

Color was emotions.

Color was his emotions.

Color was memory.

Color was the physical embodiment of the metaphorical heart. Of his heart. Not the heart muscle, no; but the heart we associate with love, with falling in love, with passion, with life, with exploration.

Color was love.

Color was falling in love.

Color was falling…

Color was his lifeblood. His eyesight had always been sub-par. Despite any qualms, Roger saw with his heart. He trusted his heart above all. It was an intuitive trust built on no scientific facts, or calculated numbers. It boiled down to a faith in himself; Roger believed in himself. Trusting himself, and his excessively accurate and discerning perceptions had always been easy and right. Sight had nothing to do with seeing, but it had everything to do with feeling; sight was interpretation, interrogation, and inclination. Color and texture were merely the tools of predilection and empathy linked entirely to the sensation we call seeing. Color and texture were his gateway into seeing, which he did with his heart and his eyes, which for Roger, were one the same. Those two aspects ruled his heart, and he let them sway him in whatever direction they’d take him.

Color and texture made him the clotheshorse he had become when unlimited funds cascaded his way. Everything needed to look good and feel good; after all, when you had such a flawless canvas to accessorize, you might as well as use the best to adorn it. Texture was the physical embodiment of feeling good. What felt good made him feel good. It was as simple as that. This, however, caused most people to mistakenly assume he was a creature of the surface pursuits, of banal Epicureanism, of being dastardly shallow. This couldn’t be farther from the truth; Roger swam deeply into people, their desires, and their motivations, and because he could do this, he found himself happily succumbing to the conclusion that everyone was beautiful. Roger would try anything once; it was just the kind of man he was. Just because he surrounded himself with beautiful objects, objects of color and light, didn’t mean he did the same with people; to him, everyone was beautiful, everyone glowed with colors, memories and feelings of their own, unique to them and formed from a core of colors, sculpted in the past, all wrapped up in one scrumptious vessel, which was entirely knowable if you had the charm to whisk the colors, to whisk the words from somebody; if you could do this, you could know them in totality.

For Roger, the deeper he had to search for your beauty, the harder he had to work to acquire it, the more intrigued and interested he would be; not that he’d drop you the second he found your shining core, but that his interest was driven by one’s ability to keep him guessing, in suspense, in the chase. The chase could last forever, with the right partner. Beauty started outwardly and rarely would contain itself to those boundaries. The stronger your inner beauty was, he was convinced it would spill out of a person like an overflowing well. Un-containable, unapologetic, inconsolable.

Inner beauty made him full.

Inner beauty was color.

Inner beauty was the core of all emotions.

Inner beauty was what Roger did his best to hide from the world; that was the consecrated ground he attempted to keep for himself alone. Perhaps that was why he cherished it in others so much, and was always looking for it, hoping you’d surprise him with inescapable beauty. And, well, the inherent chase inner beauty brought to the game was an insurmountable attraction for him. Roger was always playing games. And the chase was one of his favorites.

The chase was immediacy.

The chase was color.

The chase was feelings.

The chase was his heart; it presented the secret desires of a person better than asking them, at times. People could lie; but Roger didn’t think memories could. Lies were words, facts, but perverted facts. Memories had little to do with facts and everything to do with feelings and impressions. Memories were personal, subjective, kernels of emotions painted in colors. Chasing the truth was a pointless waste of time; it was unobtainable for Roger; but chasing memories, was much more fascinating, fun, and entirely more telling than facts.

Inner beauty was worth the chase.

Sex was worth the chase.

Harmonic memories were worth the chase.

Really, anything was worth the chase for Roger.

Besides people and their hidden emotions, which would always be the sexist thing about a person for Roger, he also enjoyed chasing music and cars. Both of these were also inextricably connected to Roger’s emotional core and needs. If color—emotions—were Roger’s lifeblood, music was his livelihood. In music, Roger gave color to the world. It was through this medium he shared his heart most freely. It is easy to share your heart when you can hide it behind art. Look at this shiny trinket, it might contain my heart, but focus on the glowing parts, and ignore the truth. It was just, as it always was, another game. A game of misdirection.

Misdirection was the flip-side of denial. For you typical did one to others and one to yourself, and Roger was living in both, inflicting both upon himself simultaneously. He was in denial about his heart, and his misdirection for himself was his denial, and his denial was color.

And he tried to not think about her.

And colors didn’t exist anymore.

And he felt empty.

Roger didn’t know what time it was. Did it matter anymore? Probably not. Blimey. Time was just elongated memory, wasn’t it? Memory was her. Memory was her.

Memory was her.

But he didn’t want those memories anymore. He wasn’t completely sure what day it was, to be completely honest. To be completely candid, for he was a transparent fellow if there ever was one, he wasn’t sure he cared he didn’t know what day it was. He should care, he knew that at least. He should care about what time it was and when it was on the timeline of the week. But he just didn’t. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

I have obligations, he thought, mainly that horrid dinner about the disaster trash that is the album they’re all writing. He didn’t want to think about it. And he didn’t want to think about her.

Roger rolled over in bed.

At least he thought it was his bed. It smelled like his bed. It felt like his bed. The pillows all had the same weights he remembered from before? The heavy damask blankets were in the same patterns he recalled picking out. This had to be his bed. And yet…

And yet.

All of the coverings were grey.

They hadn’t been before. Had they?

No. They hadn’t been.

This isn’t right, Roger thought. He reached a shaking hand past his actual glasses (they had a thin layer on dust on them) and flicked on a sleek lamp resting on the bedside table. The light flashed on.

He turned it off again.

Then he turned it on again. The lighting change in the room was almost imperceptible. The room seemed brighter? Yes. Definitely brighter.

He turned the light off again.

It made no sense. He’d rather not see it.

Everything was greys.

Everything was blacks.

Everything was whites.

He sat up in bed. He looked at the lamp distrustfully.

He turned it on again. Roger ripped the futuristic-looking lamp from the table, unscrewed the light-bulb from it, and flung it across the bedroom. The bulb hit a seven-foot tall sculpture that could be best described as if Kandinsky had ever made a statue, this is what he would have made: all prismatic shapes, sublime chaos, and whirling colors all held together by lines and light. It used to be his prized possession; however, now, it felt like it was screaming at him from across the room. Maybe it was, he thought. Maybe it was moving towards him right now. Screaming. In black and white.

He held the lamp up, more useless now than ever, like a sword at the sculpture.

Of course, it’s not moving, he thought, laughing to himself.

Roger hurled the lamp across the room, just to be safe. What use was light when there was no color, he moaned.

He went over to his bay-window, and felt the familiar warmth of sunlight; light was streaming in, he figured, and it was day. It smelled like day. He sat at his vanity. He turned on the Tiffany lamp.

Nothing really happened. Brightness, but no color. He picked up the rare lamp, thought about tossing it out the third story window, and settled for putting it in the closet. He kept his eyes closed while doing so; he couldn’t bring himself to look at his clothes.

He sat back down at the vanity that used to be his favorite color, and began pulling open its drawers. He began taking out pair after pair of sunglasses. He had quite the prolific collection. Every color, every shape imaginable resided in his collection. All perfectly matching his prescription, even. Just so he’d never have to wear his actual glasses.

Her coat was on the chair. He could feel it. Her black fur coat. He stood up again, and put it in the closet next to the lamp, on the top shelf. He resumed his seat, he picked up the first pair of tinted sunglasses, and he put them on. Everything was darker, but not colored.

He put the pair back on the table, and he tried the next pair.

And everything was sharper, but not colored. He removed that pair, placed it upon the table.

Roger picked up the next pair, shoved it on his face, opened his eyes, and yelled. He ripped the glasses off, and slammed them on to the vanity. And everything was removed from time.

From memory.

From color.

From heart.

Breathing deeply, shakily, he picked up the next pair, and put it on.

He looked at himself in the mirror.

Everything was grey.

He picked up the next pair–

He picked up the next pair–

He picked up the next pair–

He picked up–

An arm grabbed him, suddenly, spun him around, and Brian May said, “Rog, what in bloody hell are you doing!?”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian tries to get Roger ready and out of the house.

Adapted from the observational notes of Brian May dated 8th of June, 1981. Time: 18:47. Location: Roger Taylor’s London townhouse “The Painted Lady”:

“Accessorizing,” Roger responded. He put a pair of sunglasses down; he was still holding a pair and had one on his face. There was something funny about his voice Brian May didn’t like. Misdirection, Brian thought. It was a half-truth, it was the explicit “what” of the question but not the implicit “why,” and it was clear Roger didn’t want anyone to know the “why.”

Roger took his piercing gaze away from the mirror, away from himself, and turned to look at Brian. He said, indignantly, “What does it look like I’m doing?” It wouldn’t be the first time Roger Taylor had used a one-liner to cover something up.

“Like you’re trying to make us late for the meeting.” Brian said, attempting to level with his best and oldest friend.

“Never.” Roger turned back to the mirror, removing one pair and trying another.

“The meeting you don’t want to go to.”

“You don’t want to go to it either; stop acting all high and mighty; it isn’t like this a secret dick-sucking meeting.”

Brian rolled his eyes behind Roger.

“I saw that.”

“Yeah, genius; I meant for you to; I do know how mirrors work.”

Roger held up two fingers behind him; it wasn’t a peace sign. “If it were a dick-sucking meeting, I’d be ready posthaste.”

“Depends on who’s doing the sucking.”

Roger paused his cycle of trying on glasses and said, pensively, “not sure in this situation who’s giving and who’s receiving, hey mate?”

“Not at all.”

Roger sighed, “Nor am I.” He resumed his task most diligently.

“This whole ordeal is a mess.” Brian wasn’t sure if he was talking about the meeting or Roger.

“Yep.” Roger tried another pair, “And I’m in no rush to get there to see who I have to suck off.”

“Look,” Brian exhaled, “Just pick a pair and let’s go.” Examining his friend closer, he made an observation he didn’t like one bit. Brian slowly sat down on the bed, hands on his knees of his burgundy corduroys. “Are you wearing the same clothes as last night?”

“Oh.” Roger said, looking down at his white shirt and black tuxedo pants. It was the crestfallen nature of the “oh” that Brian didn’t like. He didn’t like it one iota. Roger should have been ready for this meeting hours ago. Sure, they had all had their fair share of alcohol at last night’s party, but something as insignificant as a hangover had never stopped Roger from managing his obligations, or spectacularly rising to the occasion.

“Oh,” he repeated, “So I am.”

“Are you alright?” Brian wasn’t sure his friend had even noticed what he was wearing. Roger not noticing what he was wearing would have been like a leopard not recognizing the spots of her children, or a model not recognizing a designer’s new collection. It would have been sacrilegiously embarrassing.

“What?” Roger asked, distractedly. He was still looking at his pants, feeling the tuxedo stripe with his nimble fingers.

Did he hear me? Or did he just not want to answer? Brian couldn’t decide. Roger had seemed defensive, to say the least, since arriving. Something was afoot, and Roger was doing his level best to keep it from him. Brian was troubled by this; they told each other everything. Had since they were kids. What was going on?

Brian clapped his hands above his head.

Roger turned around at the sound. The image of him holding two more pairs of sunglasses would have been amazingly comical if it hadn’t been deeply peculiar and disturbing in an off-handed way that was almost nonchalant; Roger was a bit too keyed up to pass for nonchalant even on his best days. There was nothing good about this situation. God, Brian thought; this on top of the record meeting. He knew he was being tested, though to what purpose, he wasn’t sure. His patience was wearing quite thin.

“What are you doing, mate?” Roger asked, trying to make Brian sound like he was the crazy one; mate was a nice word Roger used to intimidate people. He used it to butter people up. He used it to get his way. To charm.

“Just testing.”

“You know,” they said in unison, “just science stuff.” It was said in the tones of two people who had been making the same joke for most of their lives. Small smiles played across their faces, but were quickly replaced by slight frowns; it was hard to fool someone who knew you better than anyone else on the planet.

“Well?” Brian said, serious once more, “Are you gonna pick out something to wear so we can press on, or are you gonna walk in looking like yesterday’s newspaper?”

Roger didn’t respond. He just looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from himself.

His eyes were a white-grey.

They used to be blue. A blue so disarming it stopped people in their tracks. Quite literally stopped people in their tracks. Women and men–it didn’t matter; he was utterly disarming, entirely charming. Those eyes, he thought, are they mine? They can’t be. I had blue eyes. Had blue eyes. He sounded insane. Eye color doesn’t just change. He put on another pair of glasses and ran a hand through his once blond hair.

His hair was now a mousy grey that didn’t do him justice. Naturally a blond, and now entirely silver at 32. Life, it seemed, wasn’t fair.

His eyes, however, bothered him the most. When you look in the mirror and see yourself, what you see should be known, familiar, and safe. And it should be all these things instantly. It is like an instinctual check and balance automatically confirming yes this is me. You look in the mirror and know what you’re going to see every time you do it. You shouldn’t look in the mirror and see someone you don’t recognize. Your appearance shouldn’t be strange, mystifying, and forgotten.

When you look in the mirror, you know your eye color. You know you are yourself because of your eyes. Roger might as well have been looking at an alien in the mirror. He was foreign to himself. A stranger in a land that was all his own, full of his possessions and people he knew, and places he should recognize. Everything here was knowable to him, and yet it was all suddenly unrecognizable, like discovering a brave new world that wasn’t new, and he certainly didn’t feel brave. Where had the color gone? Where are my blue eyes? What is blue?

Brian was talking.

“…I can see it now, the Great Roger Taylor walking in like yesterday’s trash.”

“Why don’t you pick out something for me, Bri?” Roger asked somewhat shyly, but there was a twist in it; a hidden barb that was attempting to obscure his true desire. Brian knew Roger well, and he could spot a mile away the slathering of his old charm spreading thickly over that innocent-seeming question.

“What are you playing at?” Brian asked, genuinely curious, if not entirely concerned. According to memory, Roger had never on any one single occasion ever asked someone else to pick out his clothes for him.

“What? Don’t you want to arrive on time?”

“Yes–”

“Well, we both know it’ll take me ages to pick anything out at this rate.”

“Are you drunk?” Brian asked, truly confused at his friend’s behavior.

“Is that a trick question?”

“Is that?” Brian retorted. “Oh, wait–they all are from you.”

They stared each other down. Roger looked normal, per se. His hair was a bit more haphazard than usual; had he just woken up? It was well past mid-day, and into the evening. His clothes were wrinkled in the very specific way that happens when you’ve slept in them. Nothing about this made any sense; Roger didn’t sleep one off in his bed, he slept one off in his car, or in the backs of bars. And what about when he had walked in? What had it been, Brian questioned. The broken lamp. There had been a broken lamp on the floor. Brian had been friends with Roger long enough to have witnessed his temper a great many times. It was all flash and very little substance; the opposite of Roger on the daily. You didn’t need to bring the flash out when you glowed by default.

And the glasses. Well, this wasn’t strictly abnormal behavior, the desire to accessorize perfectly matched Roger’s history and personality absolutely. What was bizarre was Roger’s hesitancy; he wasn’t the kind of man who couldn’t make up his mind. He wasn’t indecisive about where to go for dinner, about his favorite sports team, about what song was bad or what band was garbage. Roger was so good at making up his mind he’d help you make up your own mind too, whether by charm or demand.

“Well?” Roger said, spreading his arms wide, bending them slightly at the elbow. It was a signature move. It said, simultaneously, go ahead–challenge me, are you a fool, and don’t you love me.

“I’m not playing games with you today, Rog.” Brain sighed and laid down on the bed. “The dinner meeting is going to be hard enough without you speaking in riddles.”

“Fuck the dinner.”

“You know we have to go; Miami will be there.”

“Fuck him, too.”

“That’s a lot of fucking you’re doing.”

“Watch it.”

“Ooh strike a nerve?” Brian mock-whined. “My most ardent apologies.”

“Yeah, mate, I don’t believe you as far as I could throw you.”

“Ditto.”

Roger took off his sunglasses that used to be green. He walked slowly over to the closet, nearly ready to admit defeat; his least favorite thing to do. He had never been less excited to look in his closet; and that included the time Freddie had filled it with origami cats on a lark. Those had been all sorts of colors, too. Took him ages to get rid of them. Roger kept one, though; it hung on his refrigerator downstairs. Would it still be orange? He didn’t know. It was too sad to be considered. Too sad to confront. Too sad to think about.

Roger thought he was going to be sick. Throwing up in the closet couldn’t make it much worse? Maybe it would add some color? That the thought of throwing up in his closet, his actual favorite room in any of his homes, caused him such skyrocketing hope made him feel substantially worse. Roger held the doorknob without turning it. Something was wrong. And then, on the periphery, he saw it. He saw them. He reached for one.

“Need some help with your knob?”

Roger had frozen.

He looked at the modernistic floor-to-ceiling bookshelves ensconcing this side of his bedroom’s wall. The longest wall of the entire room, in fact. It was a lengthy wall that was carried like theme throughout the rest of the first floor. The entire bedroom was very long, and not wide at all–almost cramped. With the vanity at the end of the bed, and the closet perpendicular to that, and the master bathroom across from that, the length was the winner of the room; every architectural choice in the home had been Roger’s, and he enjoyed exaggeration above common sense, especially in art. And above all else, he considered his home art.

The shelves had been built around his closet door. The closet itself was quite cavernous, “lovely, dark, and deep” he’d quip, and larger than any of the guest bedrooms. Roger’s home in London wasn’t as large as Jim and Freddie’s–it was honestly hard to be larger than their home–but Roger’s was full of exacting details he had hand-picked and planned all on his own. He genuinely needed his homes to be aesthetically pleasing in all aspects, and, as an artist who appreciated beauty and color as he did, he had a very particular level of taste he found second to none and entirely his own. His home was designed around one simple principle: what was beauty and how could it translate into color and light.

Roger also loved to read. He had a vast collection of books he had actually read that wasn’t just for show. Reading, as much as women and art, were his main sources of inspiration. Every world, anywhere anytime was accessible from a book; words painted pictures across his mind from them, and those paintings were made of color. To him, this was magic. Words being able to make someone feel something, to see something, to visualize, to empathize, that was magic and that was power. It was why he wrote songs; to touch people.

So, when Roger had reached for a book at random to toss at Brian for implying he needed help with his dick, he had finally put himself in a position to really look at his collection of books. That’s when he had frozen, hand on book, unmoving, yet silently panicking within. His heart rate had doubled, and he knew he was hyperventilating. He knew he was going faint.

His books, as you would have guessed, were organized by color.

They were organized. By color.

This made the wall, quite literally, art within art. The books themselves were each a work of art, and yet organized just so made the wall aesthetically pleasing to a level that it could have been installed in a museum, especially on the scale and height of his walls. Art in all aspects of life.

Though, naturally, when he had noticed his wall-long installation, usually singing with color, he saw with a most agonizing confusion and head-spinning sorrow that it had turned to greys, blacks, and whites. 

And he hadn’t been able to move. He hadn’t been able to think. He could barely breathe.

He wondered, is this what dying feels like? For his world had closed in entirely and collapsed in a whirlwind of colorless torture. None of it made any sense. He was sweating, so not dying, he figured. Maybe he wanted to die? He laughed, then.

Roger finally moved, bringing some momentary relief to Brain, who was growing more and more worried by the second. Though, what Roger did next dashed those hopes away.

Roger turned from the closet, and proceeded to vomit all over his vanity.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No more questions just you and I…

John Deacon walked through the garden path back to his green Mercedes-Benz. He gripped the handle, key in hand, lost in thought. It was always bittersweet, this car. It always made him think of her. Technically, her’s had been the blue one, though. Very much like her eyes, exactly like her eyes; they had joked, at the time, that their cars matched their eye colors, and perhaps they should switch models, so they could always see each other. It had been one of those romantic, foolish things people say when they’re in love and happy. Coming from anyone else, it would have made you cringe, but when it came from John and Veronica, well, people couldn’t help but see how sharply authentic their love was, and how unfairly happy they were.

God, they had been happy together. It was the kind of happiness that made other people unduly jealous and grossly resentful, and this only made them more devoted to each other. They fed off the attention from others and the passion from each other and used that to create the perfect marital balance. So much so that when John had suggested they switch cars, Veronica had loved the purity of the notion as much as she had the opportunity to make people sigh at their too real love. Freddie frequently said if he and Jim had tried half of the casually romantic things she and John had done, it would have come off as trying too hard or disingenuous; Jim had called them the real McCoy. Deacy knew better, though, and often reminded Freddie and Jim their own romance was a glorious sight to behold. Freddie called them a pair of old married couples, which Deacy had loved.

She had loved the idea. Simply loved it.

So, they had planned to switch cars, but Deacy had been held back during a recording session for Jazz, and had missed their scheduled rendezvous, so before they could switch cars, she had died.

Just like that. Happened everyday.

Is that what they call the ultimate sacrifice? Or a twist of fate?

If they had switched cars a handful of hours earlier, a measly three or four hours, Deacy could easily be the one who was dead now; the break-line had failed, and she couldn’t stop. In a weird way, he’d always blame himself for her death; he should have met her. He should have kept his promise. She should have been his priority. He’d have gladly died for her. If he could go back, he’d choose to switch cars in time instead of plucking his bass for some record he’d never be able to listen to again, let alone perform, without thinking of her. He’d choose her every damn time. Ultimate sacrifice is such a hollow way of putting it, he thought.

The fact was, Veronica was dead, and he was alive, and he could just as easily have died instead. This fact was the hardest one with which to live, even three years after the fact. It gnawed at him upon waking, and pulled his hair as he fell to sleep every night. It visited him on tour, and picked out his costume for each performance. It whispered to him from the audience, and played around his mind like a melody as catchy as anything Freddie had ever written.

She’s dead, she’s dead; and you’re alive, quite alive.

That is, until last night.

Last night, the immutable fact, which taunted Deacy relentlessly, softened. It hadn’t vanished, might never slip into a splendid quietude, but it had miraculously assuaged itself into a barely perceptible background noise. It had been unexpected, fantastic, and guilt-rendering. It wasn’t only having feelings for someone else that created this crippling guilt, but it was how good it felt to feel something other than a cleverly concealed nothingness. What caused him the most guilt wasn’t you; no, you were a gift. What caused him the most guilt was how good it felt to forget her.

How good it felt to forget her. What a terrible thing to think.

The guilt he could and would learn to deal with, to even escape, and to conquer. Forgetting her, though. He wasn’t so sure he could do that. He didn’t think he wanted to forget her. He wasn’t sure he had a choice; what if he didn’t have a choice? He hadn’t even considered the possibility that he’d just merely forget things about her given enough time. He had photographs, so he’d never forget what she looked like, or the color her eyes. What about things that couldn’t be captured? What about how she kissed? How it felt when she said his name? Or the way she put on her lipstick? The tunes she’d hum to herself–what if he forgot those? What if it just happened and he couldn’t stop it?

What if memories of you replaced his memories of her? This seemed like a preposterous notion. That wasn’t how memories worked. Veronica couldn’t be replaced like batteries in a remote. She couldn’t be thrown away. She would never be unnecessary or expendable. Though, neither were you. You had crashed into his line of sight, by chance, and had changed his entire life. With one glance, he felt it. Roots took hold of him, then, in that moment when he saw you, and they clawed, fighting for a foundation in the desert that his heart had become. You had whipped something up in him, as if suspired by divine breath, you had effortlessly coaxed something in him to awaken, something he thought had been long dead: Desire. Not even a desire for another person, though that had surely happened; rather, it had been a simpler desire altogether. A desire to live. And now that he was awake, he wasn’t sure he could go back to before.

But the guilt.

Well, he had put his heart away once. Leading up to the funeral, Deacy had stayed with Roger. Roger had catered to Deacy’s every demand–at least every demand he could realistically fulfill; his repeated request for him to bring Veronica back, to switch their cars, hadn’t been possible; though if anyone could have found a way, it would have been Roger. His realistic demands had been few, though. Deacy wanted to not move from a sofa, and watch films. Roger had gone to Deacy’s home and brought with him every VHS his friend had asked for with great speed and relief at being given a task to do. Deacy and Veronica had collected a vast film collection. They both loved everything about film. Would debate it for hours, would see everything in the theaters, even the bad ones, just for the sheer joy of experiencing it together. So, when Deacy’s one request had been to watch movies, well that had been easy to manage. Off to the Deacon residence Roger had gone to collect every film on Deacy’s list.

Though, what he had anticipated hadn’t been the bizarre film torture Deacy had insisted he put himself through. He had morbidly called it their “Greatest Hits.” It had started innocently enough with their top 10 favorite films, then gradually turned into their favorite twenty, thirty, fifty films. Deacy was determined to not move from Roger’s ultra modern lime green sofa and big screen TV until he had finished them all. He was dead-set on watching film after film with a rotating cast of his band mates and Jim, while crying silently, mouthing along with the lines in the films they had so cherished. This torture persisted for three days straight before Deacy succumbed to an uneasy sleep, his first sleep since her death, mostly due to pure exhaustion and outright fear.

They’d all take shifts sitting with him, watching films from every genre; it hadn’t mattered what was on, high period romance, crime noir, or precise comedy: he sobbed, more or less, inconsolably. He’d tell stories of her, of them, what they had liked about Taxi Driver; how overrated and inaccurate to real love that Love Story had been; how The Way We Were would always make them cry; how Katharine Hepburn could do no wrong, and how Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall would always be the sexist husband and wife on screen–they’d debate if you could literally watch them falling in love on screen, and how romantic that was to have it captured on film forever; how The Godfather: Part II was superior to The Godfather; she had loved Robert De Niro, and he had loved Al Pacino; or how Sleuth was one of the funniest movies ever made that no one ever talked about.

And as each film had progressed, as each celluloid memory flickered in front of his eyes, he had packed away a portion of his heart. Sealing it away forever behind a wall of layered film strips and light projectors, behind a wall of celebrity and fame. Well, he had certainly successfully put his heart to the side for a hefty chunk of time, so why not also put aside the guilt? Why not the guilt, indeed? Why couldn’t he push aside the guilt for you? Like he had his heart for her? Maybe it could even be like a trade? He could take his heart back, embrace feeling once more, as he had embraced you, in exchange for the self-flagellating guilt. Trading guilt for a heart seemed like a much better deal, especially since it was a guilt so perverse Veronica would never have wanted him to feel it.

Well, the other fact of the matter was he knew you were worth it. You hadn’t known each other for a long time, but he had known love before; he knew what it felt like, sounded like, looked like; you could be that. Sure, it wouldn’t be the same as with Veronica, but it shouldn’t be; you were both very different people; he was different now, too. He could never love like he had before, without fear and realism. Love for him now would be pragmatic; not to say it wouldn’t be romantic, because he was a ride or die romantic. However, he would never again believe that love was forever, undying, and could survive anything. Because, the fact of the matter was, it couldn’t.

Deacy pulled the handle, and entered his green Mercedes-Benz. His grey-green eyes flashed in the light before he hid them behind a pair of black aviators. He drove in the direction of his home, tapping out tunes only he could hear on his steering wheel. He had this series of notes stuck in his head; it was a little funky, a little spicy; it was going to be a hard sell. He had the distinct feeling the entire record was going to be a hard sell. Tonight would settle the path for the record once and for all. At least he’d have you there to strengthen his resolve. It helped Freddie was on his side, too.

Although, it wasn’t good there were sides at all. He hated Roger wasn’t on his side. Absolutely detested his hot hotheadedness and his viper sting when he thought you were wrong; it would be nothing short of a battle. He needed armor, then. He need to prepare his own stinger and cutting lines.

Shying away from an actual townhouse (pretentious) and an apartment (too many people and zero privacy) Deacy owned a detached Victorian house in St. John’s Wood. It had a fading yellow brick exterior Deacy greatly treasured; it was happily gated and had a large lawn obscured from view. Six bedrooms, as he and Veronica had wanted children, but hadn’t gotten around to it. He thought about selling the house, but as his grief abated, he knew he couldn’t just get rid of it. It would be like getting rid of his left arm; moving on didn’t need to be literal, usually it was a shifting state of mind more than anything else.

Besides, like the others, they had named their home. As he pulled up, the plaque reading Manderley greeted him. Manderley was the name of house in the film Rebecca, which they had loved. He parked his car, and made his way up the entrance and into his home. He sighed. Sometimes, he had to stop himself from calling her name when he returned home. Today wasn’t one of those days, however; it was a day where he remembered her fondly and without harm.

He started unbuttoning his shirt as he made his way past the first living room (completely shelved in with films) and kitchen (slender and accented in coppers and vibrant teals) and up to the third floor bedroom, his bedroom. He threw his clothes in the hamper, mostly undressed by the time he reached his room. The walls were the darkest blue, like the sky at night, and the ceiling glinted like the pacific ocean. He passed quickly into the master bathroom, bypassing the tub of honey-colored marble, and danced into the glass door shower. Upon finishing, he wrapped a couple large blood red towels around himself and proceed to the kitchen for his first meal of the day. He started some water boiling, threw in some salt.

He went into the first living room, picked out Saturday Night Fever and started that playing. He went back to the kitchen, threw some pasta into the boiling water, and chopped some carrots, sat some peas aside, and began to lightly sear some prosciutto. He sat that to the side, and added some butter to another pan and water and began to cook the vegetables. He readied some heavy whipping cream, garlic butter, and Parmesan. Eventually, given time and enough heat, all was ready; he tossed it together, and made his way to the first living room.

Sitting on the massively proportioned C-shaped sofa, Deacy sank into his meal and Saturday Night Fever. He’d have to pick you up eventually, and he’d have to tell you about Veronica eventually, too, but for now he enjoyed the dancing, the music, and the fever.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> don’t shun it fun it

John Deacon saw himself in the mirror looping his necktie into a perfect full Windsor knot. It was a fancy knot, entirely sophisticated and completely ironic regarding the rest of his carefully chosen ensemble. Clothes could be used to intimidate, to beguile, and to disarm. Deacy knew more about this than most people. Clothes could repel and repulse others or compel them through charm and sex appeal. Deacy might not have the obvious raw beauty of Roger Taylor, but he was attractive in a different way: his style was his own and he committed to it with every inch of his gigantic heart. His style was a reflection of his paradoxical personality, and he was proud of that. He always wanted to simultaneously bring people close and push them away. It was unexpected and always a success. If you wanted to fight for him, fight with him, play with him and join the chase, well, he’d be down; he usually didn’t find someone who was able to do this, to understand him and his innate shyness and his unflappable confidence. He was more handsome than pretty and more lupine in the lines of his face than cherubic. His shy, almost reserved confidence was tempered by his natural wit and sharp tongue; he liked the power he had in knowing he could destroy anyone with a few chosen words. The power wasn’t from being able to do this, but from not doing it. From his holding back, from his benign sparing of one person to his ruthless random attack on another; this meant people were always kept guessing and paralyzed in a glorious suspense entirely controlled by Deacy. They never knew when he would strike. And his fashion was a reflection of this chaotic energy, and every piece of clothing he was wearing tonight was a play, a game, just like everything else in his carefully controlled life. Deacy kept looping the tie, smiling to himself.

Brian dragged an unhinged Roger into the bathroom; his arms were looping through the air, trying to get at Brian’s hair, trying to get away; Brian’s arms were so unnaturally long, and Roger knew it was a fool’s errand to try and wrench himself away. He shoved Roger into the shower, fully clothed, and turned on the water. Cold sheets of moisture cascaded onto Roger’s shaking frame. Brain saw Roger’s perfect blond hair fold into lackluster browns under the water’s transformative powers. He growled, wiping water from his long eyelashes. His white shirt was soaked through in a matter of seconds and his tuxedo pants immediately weighed him down. Despite this, he tried to heave himself out of the shower. He gripped the once azure marble frame around the sliding glass door, and used his slippery leverage to regain his footing. Brain, in the mood to suffer no fools, immediately pushed Roger back into the shower and onto its cerise and cerulean tiles; those tiles, a daring choice from Roger, now only looked grey to him. Everything was grey. He felt more stable and less panicked since being forcibly emerged into the water; he had been hoping this shock to the system would reboot his sense. But it hadn’t. He was still as blind to the colors of world as he was to the whispering of his own heart.

You knew what your heart was saying, however. You didn’t want to ignore it or deny it. If anything, you wanted to tell everyone about your budding feelings. You couldn’t wait for Lydia to get home; though considering the timing of the dinner, you might miss her altogether; you hadn’t seen each other all day, and whereas this wasn’t uncommon, it was unfortunate as you were as curious about her night as she might be about yours. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what a night with Roger Taylor would look like or feel like, but you were intrigued to hear from your best friend what the details of that experience were like. You rather thought it would be different from your night with John Deacon; they were two very different kinds of people. Roger was a clear choice, meaning that he was overtly attractive, charmingly abrasive, and mostly harmless. His depth was hidden, carefully so; yet Deacy kept everything, or so you thought, mostly transparent and out in the open. You had felt if you asked him any question he’d give you an honest answer. You had told each other you didn’t want to hide things from each other, no matter what; and yet, and yet, he hadn’t told you about his dead wife. You didn’t want to push him into talking about her; you couldn’t imagine how hard it would be for him to do so, and what his relationship with you made him feel regarding her; you didn’t want to speculate; you’d rather hear the truth from him. So you had decided to wait for him to bring her up, and then as kindly as you could let him know you already knew and why, and that you weren’t hurt by her or his keeping the story of them back, but that you did deserve to know what you were getting into, and not to hear it from someone else, but from Deacy personally; you hoped this wouldn’t come to ahead anytime soon.

You were trying to brush out your hair; you had just had a bath, and the entire time, you only thought of Deacy, and how excited you were to see him tonight. You had a black towel wrapped around your body as you slid a comb through your hectic dark hair. With your glasses off your olive eyes shined in the light of the black and white bathroom. Lydia was obsessed with this bathroom; it was her design; she had, more or less, financed the entire decoration process of your shared apartment; childhood friends, you knew everything about each other. She had money. Lots of money. Her family was embarrassingly well-off, and even at university she lived off a generous trust fund that would, to your understanding, triple upon her graduation. What she loved most about this bathroom was the color scheme. She was a large scale artist. Her bedroom was covered in her original artworks; she also had a painting studio in the apartment full of ongoing projects. Her obsession had always been painting in black and white. You had never seen anything like her pieces. No matter what she painted, no matter what style she was using, landscape, abstract, or portrait, she would paint only using blacks and greys and whites. And her scale was terrifyingly large, so these pieces that should be in color were shockingly powerful when all the color was sucked out of them, and the feeling upon looking at one of her creations was powerfully confusing and thought-provoking. The absence of color did not render the feelings or the mind inept. Rather, the mind did what it did best: it filled in the subtext into glorious juxtaposition creating a sense of dissonance so delicate it was exactly was Lydia wanted the viewer to feel. Sickened and awe-inspired, in short. So the black and white baroque bathroom caused Lydia nothing short of divine ecstasy when she conceived of it, with your help. You pulled the towel up and put the comb down. You needed to pick out the perfect outfit to feel good in and to impress Deacy; you wanted to render him speechless.

Freddie Mercury was speechless. Jim had just come clean about his entire afternoon with you.

“Jim…” Freddie said, frowning into the runway mirrors. He was taking off his sweatshirt and picking out an outfit for tonight. He turned to the mirror so he could see Jim’s face better. Jim always came clean to Freddie; it was just what they did, especially if they felt guilty about something. They were each other’s confidants, each other’s shoulders to cry on, each other’s shelter from the storm. It was a guiding principle in their marriage: full disclosure, compassion, and caring understanding no matter what. It was a promise they made to each other since the day of the Jim’s white pants: if they couldn’t be transparent with their feelings, be truly vulnerable, then they needed to end it; if you don’t have vulnerability, you don’t have honesty, and if you don’t have honesty, you cannot have trust. They’ve never found it easier to keep a promise before in their lives. This was compatibility and reciprocity at its finest.

“I don’t regret it.” Jim’s Irish lilt was always more pronounced when he was angry.

Removing his undershirt, Freddie said, “I’m not asking you to regret it, darling.”

“She needed to know; I won’t be made to feel bad for protecting Johnny.”

“You’re right; I’m sorry, my love.” Freddie stopped undressing and walked over to Jim, who was sitting on one of the white patterned elaborate sofas. He took his husband’s hand. “You need to tell Deacy you told her.”

“I know.” Jim was no longer angrily defensive; he was resigned to having to make a fuzzy situation less complicated somehow.

“That’s all I’m asking; they deserve an equal playing field. And it is unfair,” he said, kissing Jim to make sure he was listening, “to ask her to bring it up to him, when it is privileged information she shouldn’t already have. I can’t even imagine the courage that would take.”

“Nor I.”

“And you don’t want to set them up to fail or distrust each other or doubt what they have, especially since you hold them both in such high esteem.”

Jim nodded, resting his head on his husband’s shoulder.

“Nice pants, by the way; exceptionally snug.” Freddie’s eyebrows bopped up and down suggestively.

“Oh, there will be none of that Mr. Mercury.” Jim said standing up and making his way towards the exit of this closet and towards his own. The teal satin pants were a tight statement piece Freddie was proud to see his love wearing.

“We don’t have the time.” Jim reasoned.

“There’s always time, darling.”

“Not for what I have planned there isn’t.” Jim winked at Freddie.

Freddie beamed up at his husband. “I guess I’ll just have to be patient, then.”

“Indeed.”

“One of the white ones, maybe?” Freddie suggested, starting to sift for the perfect ensemble himself.

“I think you’d like that a bit too much, Fred.”

“But that’s the point, love.”

Jim laughed.

Miami Beach pulled up to the restaurant in his cream Rolls-Royce.

Deacy ran a hand through his bouncy hair, checking his reflection one more time. The black and orange spoon-patterned tie clashed brilliantly with his fitted forest green button-down. The shirt was covered in mauve and sandy-colored bird silhouettes. He wore a baggy grey blazer over it, and a simple pair of tailored ivory-colored trousers. It was a twofold curiosity he felt: 1) what on earth would you think and say about his ungodly attire tonight 2) how angry would Roger be when he saw him, since it would be clear to them all, though especially Rog, that something was meant by this beyond just the typical utility clothing served. Roger would know it was a game crafted to make them furious. He slipped on a pair of grey loafers, and headed for the front door.

Brian had closed the shower’s glass door and was doing his best to hold it closed. Roger was taking turns switching between banging on it and tugging on the handle. His hands were slippery and he couldn’t get enough traction to open it.

“Open the door, you sod.” Roger yelled. “I’m soaked through to the bone. I’m dying. Let me out.”

“You’re not dying; you’re drunk and you need to sober up for this meeting.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Come off it! You can’t lie to me, Rog; we’ve known each other too long.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Yeah, and a sober person vomits all over their treasured sunglasses collection. Please; give me some credit here.”

Roger gave up fighting then. He knew what this looked like. He understood why Bri thought he was drunk. He also knew he’d sound like a lunatic if he tried to explain to his friend what was really wrong with him. This bizarre water torture wasn’t helping him calm down, however; sure, he wasn’t having a panic attack any longer, but he was growing angrier and angrier wet second by wet second. He was angry at himself, angry at Brian, and angry at Lydia. Angry at Lydia for fucking up his life, angry at Lydia whom he loved. Whom he loved. No, Roger thought, stop that; you don’t love her. You don’t know her. She’s not important. It isn’t like she’s thinking of you, wanting you; you’re nothing. She’s better off without you, mate. Roger let the water hit him, and he breathed in and out, trying to slow his breath, trying to mask his anger and self-loathing. If he ever wanted to get out of his shower, he’d had to make Brian believe he was fine. To do that, he’d have to conceal his rage and sorrow, and put on a happy face, or at least an apologetic one; in short, he’d have to lie.

“You’re right.” Roger sounded contrite, but wasn’t.

“I’m sorry! I can’t hear you.” Brian was deliberately plugging his ears.

“You can hear me, you bugger.”

“Try again, then.”

“You’re right, Bri. I had a drink to steady myself before the meeting and over did it.” Roger had his lips up against the glass door, dramatically screaming into it.

“And you’re a bit too drunk now to see you could have turned the water off on your own, hey?”

Roger spun around and growled at full volume in his shower before turning off the faucets. He had been distracted, yes, but not drunk. All the same, he hadn’t noticed when Brian locked him in here he had full control over the water. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he was going to break the glass door with his fists.

Brian, perhaps sensing this, opened the door. He reached a hand in and turned off the faucets for Rog.

“I hate you,” Roger said.

“I hate you, too.” Brian said.

It was how they said I love you, and always had been. They laughed together, and Brian felt his concern melt away and become a thing of the past.

“Pass me a towel, mate?” Roger was shaking. Brian thought it was from the cold, but it was from Roger’s barely controlled fury.

Brian passed Roger a canary yellow towel; Roger took the grey towel and began patting himself down.

“I’ll get you something to put on.” Brian left the bathroom.

Roger’s tears were mixing with the moisture on his face. His grey eyes sparkled back at him. He wanted to die. And since he couldn’t die, he settle for hurting someone or something.

You were in your bedroom, throwing clothing options on your bed, and rejects to the floor.

You found yourself unable to settle on one style over another, maybe it was leftovers from the impromptu costume party you and Jim had, but for the life of you, you had never had so many problems picking out what to wear. Lydia would say it was because you suddenly cared so much about what you had on because it would be taken off of you by someone else. And whereas she might not have been wrong, there was also the direct notion someone else you liked very much would be at a dinner with you, and his closest friends, and you’d have the opportunity to stare at each other all night. It had very little to do with touching for you. You felt compelled to have a visual impact that would draw attention.

Lydia was so much better at this than you; you wished she was home. You had a few outstanding pieces chosen, and even though Deacy had said it was a casual event, you had suspicions these men never dressed to not kill. You put on the top first. It was a golden brocade long-sleeved peplum. The raised pattern was adorned with pastel flowers, very small, very delicate. You paired the spectacular top with a pair of sky blue fitted velvet pants. You knew the shoes you needed, but they were Lydia’s. You both had an open door for fashion policy. You squeaked out of your bedroom and headed for Lydia’s room. You knocked on the door again, just to be sure, just to be polite–you knew she wasn’t home though. You opened the red crystal door knob and entered your best friend’s room.

The skylight was hexagonal and raised as if to kiss the sun itself. The bed was four poster with gauzy black hangings that did little much to obscure the view of whatever would happen in her bed. Unlike your room, where the walls were visible at certain points, Lydia’s walls were entirely covered by her artworks. Her black and white art screamed softly and sang loudly to you as you went for her closet. The canvases were all types of sizes, tetris-ed into perfect fits on her large walls (she had the largest bedroom). Though most of her pieces were at least four feet tall and wider when possible; she liked everything to be larger than life in all aspects of her life. In her closet you found them fast. You had your heart set on a pair of bright orange patent leather pumps. You threw them on, and ran to the bathroom to check your hair quick. Large and fluffy was as close to taming it as you could get. It would have to do. You put your large black plastic frames on, but still felt your outfit was missing something. Earrings, maybe? You went back into Lydia’s room and took her extra large golden hoop earrings and put them on; instinctually, you reached for her emerald bird-shaped ring, and slipped it on your finger. You looked at yourself in the mirror again, breathed in and out, and felt right. There was a knock at the door. You picked up the balloon string, you had removed it to shower, and went to answer the door.

Freddie and Jim were examining themselves in the runway mirror. Jim had on a pair of his white trousers with a bright red basic tee shirt tucked into them. He was combing his mustache and considering the white derbys Freddie had insisted he wear. This fashion stuff meant more to his husband than it did to him; he wasn’t used to it. He would never get used to having money; he just didn’t know what to do with it, and felt guilty every time he spent money on something nice for himself. It was perhaps nonsensical, but the principles we are taught as children never really leave us, and Jim was raised to be frugal and not spend money on himself–not that he ever really had any extra to spend on himself anyway.

“You look wonderful,” Freddie said, sensing Jim’s discomfort. “You are allowed to look wonderful, and to not feel like you’re neglecting anyone because of it.”

“I know.” Jim said sheepishly. “Learned behavior is hard to ignore.”

“Wait–what is that?” Freddie said dramatically, as if straining to hear an invisible caller, “It’s your mother’s siren call, darling!”

“Oh, give it a rest, angel.” Jim said, a laugh in his heart.

“You first.” Freddie had his hands on Jim’s shoulders, smiling at him, willing him to relax about money; when you grew up always worrying about money, it was impossible to never worry about it, even when you had it, it was always in the back of your mind like itch you couldn’t scratch, or a breath on the back of your neck you can’t find the source for, or the feeling when your shoes always come untied: it is the perpetual feeling of never being able to do enough to take care of yourself. And Freddie, since the white pants incident, had taken care of Jim, without even asking; it was like breathing for him, meaning, it was just what he did to live: he looked after others because he could.

Jim exhaled, “I love you.”

“I love you.” Freddie kissed Jim, then examined himself in the mirror. “What do you think?”

Freddie had on a yellow muscle shirt, tight acid-washed jeans, and a pair of red adidas boxing shoes: in few words, his current favorite look.

“Very sporty,” Jim said, smiling.

“Sporty?” Freddie said, mock-insulted, “This is fashion, darling!”

“I don’t understand why you get to wear that and I’m stuck wearing this.”

“Well, because all night, whenever I see you in those white trousers, I’ll get the immense pleasure of reliving the most important night of my life.”

Jim looked at Freddie, then. And what he saw was love.

“Reservation?” The maitre d’ asked.

“The reservation is under Beach.”

“For seven of you?”

“Yes; one chair for each of their massive egos.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Yes, seven.”

You opened the door and saw John Deacon. And you were rendered momentarily speechless, though not for the usual reason he had that effect on you.

“Wonderful!” He said excitedly leaning in for a kiss. “That’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

“Were you robbed?” You asked, returning the kiss.

“Not one bit.” John saw you then, really saw you, and a bewildered smile grew large on his face. He took in your outfit, the bird-shaped ring, almost the same color as his bird-patterned shirt, and breathed slowly. You were glorious, and you both were gloriously synchronized.

“Ah, that’s exactly the reaction I was hoping for.” You said, copying his exact delivery.

“Do you usually dress like this?” He was searching for something in your face, keenly; the gears in his mind were working fast.

“I think I was just insulted.” You muttered to yourself.

“Not at all.” Deacy said, taking your hand. “Honest answer?”

“I don’t, no. But I followed my intuition–which is never wrong.”

“Ditto; it is why I asked.” Deacy started leading you down the stairs. “You see, this is all for a specific purpose.”

“To make your friends vomit at the table when they see you?”

“In a sense, yes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I want them to be off their game.” He said, trying to explain years of psychology only he could know about his friends. “It is the only way to win.”

“This is that kind of dinner, then?”

“Yes, and I’ll make it up to you forever if you’ll let me?”

You stopped on the stairs thinking of Veronica. You understood why he was able to make promises like this, even last night so close after meeting. It all suddenly and loudly made sense. Now you understood perfectly why those kinds of vainglorious-seeming vows could escape his lips and sound believable and were believable because they were the honest truth, his honest truth: he could say them and mean them because he had before; he had made those promises before to someone before, and he had meant them entirely, and was able to keep them. You steadied your breath before he could notice your epiphany, and said, “I will let you, Deacy.”

He smiled up at you, and noticed your wrist. A small frown appeared on his face.

“Oh! I removed it to shower.” You said, fast. “I was hoping you’d help me tie back on.” You held out the string to him. “Lydia wasn’t here to help.”

He took the string from you, and tied it perfectly on your wrist once more. It wasn’t full of diamonds or even anything remotely valuable conventionally, but its intrinsic worth was more than anything else you owned.

On the street, he led you to a different car than before.

“I thought your Mercedes was green?”

“Didn’t I mention the blue one, too?” He couldn’t recall completely.

“I thought you were joking.” You said.

And you realized this was her car.

It was a light blue Mercedes-Benz.

You didn’t know how you knew it, but it was what your gut was telling you, and you always trusted your gut, because it was always right.

“Roger fixed this one for me.”

“Fixed it for you?” You questioned. You felt bad, because you had a very good idea why it had to be fixed, but you didn’t want to pressure him before he was ready to tell you, or hint that you knew more than you should.

“It was out of commission for a spell.” Deacy said hesitantly. “Technically, this one is my car. My main car, I mean.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is.” There was something sad in Deacy’s voice, and you wanted more than anything to take that sadness away. He opened the door for you, and closed it once you had gotten inside.

He walked around to the driver’s side and entered.

“Thank you for coming to this dinner with me.” He said, suddenly very serious.

You took his hand, hoping he’d hear you. You made sure he was looking you in the eyes. Your olive eyes shone and his grey ones were slightly cold. “It is my pleasure to help in anyway I can.”

He smiled at you, and nodded. He put the key in the ignition and began heading towards the restaurant.

Roger Taylor’s hair was dry. He was in a white and grey fitted plaid blazer, at least that’s what he saw. It’s actual colors, because he knew his wardrobe, were a pale blue and grey. But color wasn’t a thing anymore, and all he saw was the grey. He was wearing a grey tee shirt, which should have been the same pale blue, but wasn’t. He was in a pair of actual dark grey trousers with a full break, and a pair of purple-colored oxfords that looked only black to him. Brian had handed him his baby blue aviators, which looked only light grey to him, and turned him to the mirror.

“It’s not as good as anything you could put together, but it’ll suffice.” Brian sounded impatient; he was in no mood to humor Roger anymore tonight.

“You’re right on both accounts.” Roger said, trying to lighten the mood. He felt like vomiting again; he missed color. He missed it dearly.

“Can we please go now?”

“Ready when you are, Bri.” Roger tried to smile enough to fool his lifelong friend.

“Let’s motor.”

Freddie and Jim arrived at the restaurant, surprised to find they had beaten everyone else when they were led to a table in the back and only saw their manager sitting there waiting alone.

“Miami, darling!” Freddie embraced Beach with a full-on hug compete with loud cheek air kisses that made everyone in the dining room turn and stare. This is what the public expected, and it was what Freddie would deliver with panache.

“Hello, Freddie. Jim! How are you?” Miami shook Jim’s hand, happy to see someone normal here for the night’s entertainment.

“Hello, Jim.” Jim Hutton said, smiling widely at his same-named friend.

“Listen, I’ll be at the head of the table for mediation, and I was thinking the band would be here in these four chairs, and the guests at the end.”

“Thank god,” Hutton said, happily sitting at the other end of the table; he knew what was coming. At least he thought he did. They all thought they did.

Roger was trying to shake Brian off him. “Stop fixing my lapel; leave me alone!” His mood had not improved during the ride to the restaurant. He was seething. He could make ice boil just by looking at it. They were walking up to the maitre d’, who wasn’t pleased at Roger’s outburst.

“Reservation?”

“Beach, please.” Brian responded as congenial as possible; next to him Roger kept taking off his sunglasses and polishing them compulsively. “Would you please stop it.” Brain said opening his mouth as little as possible and attempting to still smile at the host.

“Me stop it? You stop it!” Roger said way too loudly to be considered even the neighbor to polite behavior.

“Right this way, please.” The maitre d’ was doing his best to ignore Roger Meddows Taylor. The hard thing about that was, he was so gorgeous, especially when angry, that it was hard to look away. That unique charm Roger had to stop people in their tracks occurred the entire way to the table. People turned to look at the Blond God, and they loved every second of it. Roger, who usually loved the attention, just found himself getting more viciously furious by the second. What kind of black and white film hell had he stepped into? He enjoyed a good film noir like the rest of everyone else, but this was too fucking much; he didn’t want to live in one.

Hutton was hugging Brian and Freddie came over to embrace Roger, who distractedly hugged him back.

“Hello, Miami. How’s the family?” Brian asked.

“Wonderful, thank you. Wife is pregnant again, actually.”

“Congratulations!” Brian smiled warmly. “That calls for champagne, I think.”

“Absolutely!” Freddie agreed.

Roger and Brian sat across from Freddie.

Shortly thereafter, you and Deacy arrived at the restaurant.

“Miami Beach, please.” Deacy said to the flustered-looking maitre d’.

“Miami?” You asked bemusedly.

“It’s a long story.” Deacy said, “I’ll tell you later.”

The maitre d’, whose night was about to get a million times worse than he could ever have imagined, led you and Deacy to a table in the back. You had never been to a place this fancy before. It was the kind of place with more than one type of fork and spoon.

“Here is your table, Mr. Deacon.”

Deacy hadn’t given his name, and blushed instantly; he’d never get used to be recognized in public. “Thank you.” He said graciously.

The table was full, except for two sets, belonging to you and Deacy. You saw they were apart from each other, but that was okay, and, if anything, facilitated the odds of being able to steal glances at each other, which was all part of the game.

You both stood at the back of the table near what would be your chair, when Roger looked up and noticed you both.

The look on his face shifted from casual, un-targeted annoyance to a direct venomous glare of absolute detestation.

Looking at you, he shouted loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear, “What in bloody hell is she doing here?!”


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Synchronize your minds and see the beast within him rise…

Roger dashed from the restaurant, shockingly embarrassed, desperately self-loathing, and tremendously regretful. What have I done? What the fuck have I done? He kept thinking this one thought over and over, on repeat, a skipping record: What have I done? His cheek was pulsing red and burning hot, but the stinging jabs in his mangled and muddled heart were far worse than the cold, well-deserved slap he had received. Or had it been a punch? He couldn’t remember. Roger knew he had finally gone too far. He had done it now. Gone all the way. It wasn’t the “what in bloody hell is she doing here” opening line that had sealed his fate; rather, it was what he had said directly after that had fucked him over and fucked everything right to hell. He knew those next and final four words had changed everything. Maybe forever. At the time, he had wanted to say them, at the time, he had wanted to hurt someone. Now, though…well, now: What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

Everything was blacks, whites, and greys in the bustling streets, and he wanted to vomit again because of it. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day; he felt sensory-deprived and excruciatingly confused because nothing was as it should be, and it was all his fault. He heard rushing footsteps pursuing him at a run; he was afraid who it would be, frightened about which one of them would come after him. Roger turned, panting, and saw Jim Hutton behind him. Overwhelmed emotionally and distraught in his mind, Roger stopped running, waiting for Jim to catch up to him. He had given up. He had given up on everything. What have I done? Better to just give in, he thought.

“Roger!” Jim shouted at him; it was a tired yelp, equal parts galled and resentful.

“I can’t Jim.” Roger responded, exasperatedly. “Everything is falling apart. Nothing makes sense. Just leave me alone. All of you just leave me alone.”

“You villain!” Jim yelled, angry tears in his eyes. “You villain. I’ve always wanted to deck you Roger Taylor, and now you’ve given me all the reason I need to fulfill that particular dream.”

“Just get it over with.” Roger pleaded, throwing his hands up in the air. “I won’t fight you.” He wanted to be beaten up; and it had nothing to do with his sexual proclivities. It was atonement for which he was looking. Maybe it would bring her back? Maybe it would bring the colors back? What have I done?

Jim wasn’t listening to him, maybe he wasn’t really seeing him either; all Jim could see was his loyalty to Johnny, and what needed to be done; if he had been really looking, however, he would have seen the considerable torment Roger was experiencing; self-caused though it may be, Jim wouldn’t have been heartless to anyone’s suffering–even Roger Taylor’s. “You should be ashamed of what you said to that poor man.”

“I am.”

“How could you? After everything you did for him?”

“I know.”

“When you stepped up after she died, when you gave everything to him, I saw you, Roger.” Jim said, fighting back tears from old wounds and ancient grudges. “I saw you for the first time, and I knew you had a heart buried inside you somewhere. I saw you, Roger. I knew you were a good man. A man I wanted to know. A man I was proud to know.”

“I’m nothing, Jim; you put your faith in the wrong person.”

“I didn’t; you loved him.”

“I do love him.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.” Jim spat at him. “What you did in there. What you said–!”

“What have I done?”

“You should hate yourself.” Jim was quiet, now.

“I do.” Roger had started crying. Publicly. In the streets. He didn’t care anymore. Colors didn’t exist. What have I done? He’d never deserve Lydia; she was too good for him. What have I done? And to top it all off, now he had ruined the most important friendship of his entire life. Full stop. No qualifications. He had ruined his chances with Lydia deliberately, and he had ruined John with intent. Then, as if by magic, he saw something that made him wish he was dead.

He saw a car.

He saw her car.

Veronica’s car.

“You do?” Jim questioned; though Roger was no longer paying attention to him, which annoyed him. He finally and carefully took in the pathetic sight before him.

Roger was leaning on a lamppost, barely able to stand. He wasn’t staring at Jim, though. He had seen the car, and he couldn’t take his eyes off of it. He was staring at Deacy’s blue Mercedes-Benz. And he couldn’t take his eyes off it; it was blue. What have I done? Actually blue. Nothing else had color. But Veronica’s car was light blue, like it always had been. He could see it. He could see it. And all he could think about because of it, the only image that flashed through his whirling mind was her body under the white sheet. Perhaps that had been his ultimate sacrifice; perhaps that had been love. And he saw Lydia, then, too. Perfect Lydia. His Goddess in Red.

“He’s driving her car?” Roger whispered, finally tearing his eyes away from the blue car. He was trying to confirm the answer to his question in the lines of Jim’s pale, worried face. Jim nodded in response, and that was when Roger’s tears turned into violent, rocking sobs.

“He’s driving her car.” He repeated, sliding down the lamppost to sit in the street. He bawled, head in his hands. What have I done?

Jim Hutton wasn’t a man who was surprised by much; he had seen a lot of things that had broken a lot of people. Seeing Roger Meddows Taylor sobbing over a car in the heart of London, sitting in the dirty streets, however, had rendered him speechless. Something was very wrong here, and it had nothing to do with the assembled company inside the restaurant.

You were standing, shaking, staring at Roger’s retreating back, waiting for someone to say something. No one was breathing, everything was loudly quiet. Abrasively silent. Someone needed to say something, but no one was. You were too afraid to turn around and look at everyone. Your brave outburst had been the biggest spectacle you had ever caused. You knew you needed to apologize, but you couldn’t find the words. You needed to apologize to Deacy. But, before you could organize your thoughts, Jim Hutton had stood back up, shaking off Freddie’s arm from his; he had stood up so fast his chair had fallen over; he commenced to sprint out of the restaurant after Roger. He didn’t explain what he was doing or why; he had just left, like Roger before him.

Behind you, you heard Miami Beach speaking with brisk authority and unexpected humorous charm. Something about rock-stars being so temperamental. You turned and saw Miami had placed a kind hand on the waiter’s shoulder. The waiter was covered in some red sauce and several glasses of wine. Miami was apologizing to him about his tray toppling over during the fight; he wanted to personally pay for the meal, whoever’s it had been, and plead forgiveness from the chefs for them having to remake it. That was when a very frazzled man came over; he was the restaurant’s manager; Jim asked if there if was somewhere they could talk privately. Miami retreated further back into the restaurant with the manager, already pulling a money clip from his designer blazer.

You risked looking at the rest of the table, then. Brian May was still sitting, though he looked stuck; as if he wasn’t sure where he wanted to be: chasing after Roger, or here with everyone else.

Freddie Mercury finished standing up, finally being the next one of you to move. He carefully walked over to you, and put a hand on your shoulder.

“Y/N, are you alright?” He asked, lightly and as non-threateningly as he could.

But you had eyes only for Deacy. You had finally forced yourself to look at the man you were falling in love with, and this was an entirely new side of him you had never before witnessed.

John Deacon was still breathing heavily; each breath crashed into him like a wave too strong for his body to withstand; it was taking all his self-control to stay on his feet. His fists were bright pink and balled tightly at his side, so tightly, you were sure, his fingernails were digging into his skin, maybe even drawing blood. What was most alarming, however, was that he couldn’t or wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You couldn’t decide which was worse: What you had said and done, or that John couldn’t look at you.

“How did you know?” He asked, too quietly, but you heard every word; it was terrifying he could hold so much power and speak so softly. You had never heard his voice sound like this before; it was the hidden caves of a marsh, it was the sound of a sandstorm raging to change the landscape, it was the sound of cancer.

“How did you know?” He repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, “Deacy,” you started.

“Who told you?” He said, not looking at you, not looking at any of them.

No one responded.

John banged a fist on the table suddenly and with great force. “Which one of you told her about Veronica?”

Freddie’s hand slipped down from your shoulder to take your hand. He squeezed it, and it was his way of saying let me handle this.

“John,” Freddie said softly, “look where we are. We don’t need to do this here, love.” Their table had been somewhat secluded, near the back, but it hadn’t shielded them from prying eyes, and concerned looks after the ordeal that had transpired.

“We are doing this now, Fred.” John said. It was said with so much command and surety, Freddie wasn’t sure they’d be able to convince him otherwise; it didn’t help the two people who were best at reasoning with Deacy were currently running down the streets of London, doing who knows what.

“Can we all please sit down?” Brain asked, politely yet sternly. “Deacy, we can talk here, but please–sit. Y/N, would you please sit too, down here, with us?”

Freddie held his other hand out to you, and led you Roger’s seat. You sat next to Brain, who was a great calming presence. Deacy reluctantly sat next to Freddie. Across from you, Deacy’s eyes were the color of storm clouds, the color of death.

His eyes still would not meet yours.

“John?” Freddie said, trying to get his attention. “Jimmy told her.”

Deacy looked at Freddie, and shock was splashed across his dark eyes.

“Roger?” Jim Hutton asked the Blond God.

“Jim, leave me alone.” Roger tried, and failed, to crawl away from Jim towards the blue car. Jim was standing on the hem of Roger’s blazer.

“Roger, you’re not getting away from me. I won’t leave you here. I won’t leave you alone.”

“You should. I’m worthless.”

“Maybe,” Jim agreed, sitting down next to Roger. “But I still care about you; you’re making it really hard to, though, almost like you’re doing it on purpose.”

“You shouldn’t care about me.”

“I’d care about even my worst enemy, Roger; don’t tell me who I can care about.”

“What I said back there…”

“Oh, I think we all know what you said back there; I don’t need to hear it again. Don’t you dare repeat it. Not to me. Not ever.”

“I feel sick.”

“You should.”

“No, not because of that–not just because of that. Something’s wrong, Jim.”

Jim sighed loudly, moving closer to Roger, lighting a cigarette, “I’m listening.”

“If I tell you, you’ll think I’m mad.”

“I do already, Rog.” Jim said, passing him the cigarette. “So no love lost there.”

“I fell in love.” Roger said, simply.

Jim turned to look at Roger like he had just confessed to being Jack the Ripper; it was impossible because Rog could never kill anyone, and, well, because Brian hadn’t yet figured out time travel. This was a statement he hadn’t expected to ever hear from the man sitting next to him.

“You fell in love?”

“Yes, and now my entire world is fucked. Right fucking fucked.”

“What do you mean? You’re not making sense.”

“Yeah, and I haven’t even gotten to the half of it yet.” Wiping tears from his face, he continued, “The only reason I can tell this car from any other Mercedes is because I can see it’s blue.”

“Okay…” Jim said, waiting for more.

“And if I didn’t know your eyes were brown, I wouldn’t know it now just from looking at you. And the only reason I know my shoes are purple is because they’re sentimental meaning has made them distinguishable in my mind above all others; they’re my favorite pair, and I’d know them anywhere. But I can’t tell you what color those flowers are, or the color of your shirt, or anything else. It’s all gone.”

“Wait–slow down. What’s gone?”

“The colors. Everything is gone. I fell in love, and now I can’t see them.”

“You fell in love, and now you can’t see colors?”

“Yes.”

Jim didn’t say anything, he just stared at Roger trying to tell if he was pulling his leg. He lit another cigarette.

“I told you, if I told you, I would sound crazy.”

“You did warn me, yes.” Jim said, slowly.

“I’m not crazy, Jim.”

“I know you’re not, Roger.” Jim was trying to believe him. He did for the most part; he wasn’t a medical professional, but he didn’t think Roger was insane; maybe he had experienced some kind of a mental break, but that didn’t mean he was certifiable. “Okay, Roger; I believe you, but you’re going to need to tell me everything that happened, and everything about this color business. Okay?”

Roger nodded, afraid, and still sobbing. “Please, just get me away from her car.”

“Jim told her. Jim told you?” Deacy’s eyes finally met yours, and it caused you a brief sense of sharp relief.

“Yes, he did.” You said quite quickly.

John took a breath to steady his nerves. It wasn’t the kind of breath to calm good nerves, not the kind of gentle inhale before a first kiss, or walking out on stage; no, it was a very different kind of breath. John took a breath again. John didn’t want to do one thing, and he was afraid he was doing just that; he didn’t want to scare you. He didn’t want to make you feel unsafe, he didn’t want to scare you away. So, he kept taking breaths, trying to center himself. Trying to sieve off some of his vastly expanding rage, shame, and that dark, dark sorrow that had so governed him these past three years.

You could tell he was worried about whatever it was you were feeling; which was oddly sweet, but not necessary; you had done what you did because of his feelings. Somehow, for some reason, you had wanted to protect him, and you had. You could tell he cared very much about you, and despite how traumatic this night had been for him, he didn’t want you to be afraid of him and the feelings he was currently experiencing. You could hardly blame him, though, for feeling how he did; you all had heard what Roger had said.

“Why did he tell you about her?” Deacy asked, as lightly as he could manage; it wasn’t very light, it wasn’t very steady, but he was trying his best. His fists were still tight; you wished he’d unfurl them, but you had the distinct feeling he did not want to be touched right now.

“He said he was protecting you.”

Deacy nodded once. It was a cold nod, a detached nod. “That sounds like him, yes.” He said, more to himself than to anyone else at the table.

He sat in silence, closing his eyes, and breathing slowly–or trying to. You could tell he was dangerously, incandescently wrathful, and that he was, maybe more than anything else, lost. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t find the words.

Very slowly, he said, “I wanted to tell you myself. Eventually.” His grey eyes met yours, and you knew he was trying to not cry. A screw turned in your heart. God, you had felt pain before, at least you had thought you had; looking at Deacy now, however, you knew he had known real suffering beyond anything anyone should be able to endure. And yet, here he was, alive despite that pain. Maybe in spite of it, even; you admired that about him.

“I believe you.” You said. You decided to risk it; you took his hand.

You were two hands holding.

He looked at your hands, taking a deep, shuddering breath. And he began to cry.

“I have believed everything you’ve told me since we met. I wish I had someone looking out for me the way Jim does for you. Don’t blame him for telling me.”

“For you, I won’t.” Deacy said, holding your hand back, squeezing it a little too tightly. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is why Roger…” he couldn’t get the words out; you realized that was what was hurting him most. It wasn’t what you had said or done, but what Roger had.

“Did you drive here?” Jim Hutton asked Roger.

“Yes,” Roger said, fishing for his keys in his pocket; he scooted Jim off his blazer to wrangle them out. He tossed them to Jim.

“Good catch,” Roger smirked.

“The gays can catch things, you know.” Jim said, standing and helping Roger to his feet. “Where did you park?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Jim looked at Roger incredulously.

“No, Jim. I can’t see her anymore.” He shouted dramatically, arms wide, throwing his glasses to the ground and stomping on them. “I can’t see my Goddess, I can’t see the color Red. I can’t see any of them.”

Humoring Roger, Jim nodded at him, smiling. He needed to get him out of here and back to Garden Lodge. Freddie would be able to find them there, at least. It is the first place his husband would check. Jim scanned the area growing more and more concerned with each passing second. It took him a few moments, but he spotted Roger’s Alfa Romeo one block down. “She’s on this next street.”

“Lydia?”

“What?” Jim said, voice high, taken aback. “No–your car.”

Roger looked up and down the block. Once. Twice. Again. What have I done?

And as he kept looking past his own car, the more times he did it, the more Jim felt himself believing Roger; he wasn’t making it up; he wasn’t trying to get out of what he had said. Of what he had done.

“Here,” Jim said, taking Roger’s hand. “I’ll lead the way.”

Deacy couldn’t understand why Roger had lashed out, none of them could. It had happened mere moments ago, but you kept playing it over and over in your mind, trying to make sense of what he had said and why.

“What in bloody hell is she doing here?” Roger had yelled, staring daggers at you..

“She’s here with me.” Deacy said, taking your hand proudly and protectively. He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at his best friend. Deacy could tell he hadn’t dressed himself; and Roger could tell Deacy had dressed to attack.

“Well, well, well,” Roger said slowly, savoring each word. “My, my, my, you move faster than even I do.”

“Come off it, Rog.” Deacy said, laughing. He wasn’t in on the joke.

Roger stood, smiling sweetly, and said, voice dripping with venom, “Replacing Veronica already, mate?”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She don’t take no prisoners…

“What in bloody hell is she doing here?” Roger said, projecting to the entire restaurant, staring at you like you had just killed his cat, or set his home on fire. There was real, inexplicable hate in his eyes, and you couldn’t for the life of you figure out why it was there and why it was targeted at you.

Next to you, Deacy took your hand, and gave it a pulsing beat before saying, “She’s here with me.” You knew, without a doubt, he was proud to be able to say it, to mean it, and to want that kind of statement in his life again. He was claiming you, in front of his friends–in front of his family.

The two men observed each other quietly and quickly. There was an air of sizing each other up to how they studied each other. It was instinctual and decisive: an attack was coming. You couldn’t tell if Deacy knew, but your gut told you something was about to happen.

“Well, well well,” Roger said, tracing his lips with one of his fingers, “My, my, my, you move faster than even I do.”

Deacy gave Roger a stressed smile, and an honest, if not innocent, short laugh. “Come off it, Rog.” He blushed, brushing Roger off; he had figured the teasing had ended. There was no way in Deacy’s mind that his friend could be saying any of this seriously, there was no way it was meant as anything else but a joke. He was sure. He had been sure. He thought he had been. He really thought he had been.

Roger stood, slowly. He wanted to savor this. He wanted to enjoy this. He even took a couple steps towards you and Deacy, and it was the stalking steps of a predator; he was all glitzy glamour and flashy spectacle: his charm was in full force, and so was his dire vindictiveness and cruel rancor. His rage rose within him, a smile on his face, and he said it.

“Replacing Veronica already, mate?”

You felt Deacy grip your hand tighter and tighter as he took in those words. He froze to the spot, to the core. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Veronica. Veronica. Veronica. And you, right next to him. This isn’t happening, Deacy thought.

“Replacing Veronica already, mate?” Roger had said, and you knew you had heard it, and you knew you could never un-hear it. And Roger, well, Roger could never unsay it. You didn’t know which was worse.

Everyone at the table, you and Deacy included, everyone in the group instantly reacted in one way or another.

Jim Hutton immediately stood up, saying sharply, “Roger!” He made to move on him, but Freddie wasn’t having any of it. Freddie pulled Jim back down to his seat, eyes wide with shock. He knew Jim could easily snap Roger in two, and he wasn’t about to bail everyone he loved out of jail in one night. Jim looked at Freddie, angrily; he was a man of action, and he needed to do something. He couldn’t just sit here and take this kind of behavior. Not towards John, not after what had happened to Veronica.

Freddie’s instant high-pitched vocalized intake of breath had made something in Roger’s bright blue eyes twitch. Freddie felt Jim stand up next to him, and without pause, he yanked him back down to his chair. They turned to each other, brown eyes communicating with brown eyes: Did he just say that? He did. Why? John!

They looked at John together, and couldn’t move after, for the resentment and fury was bubbling over in John’s body; it was as if every dark cloud, every dark night sky, every room without light was radiating from his slim frame, from his grey eyes, from his heart. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it at this point. This was the point of no return; when John Deacon’s aggravation grew, it was never, ever a good sign: literally anything could happen when chaos personified became enraged.

Brian’s usually kind eyes expanded, and he shouted, “Too far, Rog. Too far.” Shaking his head disappointingly; this night wasn’t supposed to go like this. They were a family; this wasn’t right. Roger had been off all day. This wasn’t okay.

Miami Beach seemed to feel like it was the time to go into damage control, and he stood slowly, trying to not be noticed. Your very keen impression was Miami had handled this kind of event before for Queen. This wasn’t Miami Beach’s first rodeo.

Roger stood his ground. Letting the words hang in the air like icicles, waiting for Deacy’s response.

But John Deacon couldn’t move. All he heard were those words, dancing over and over in his mind: Replacing Veronica already, mate?

Replacing. Veronica. Already. Mate?

Those words could end everything, and it was all he could hear. His heart heard them, maybe he only heard them with his heart. Replacing Veronica already, mate? Well, it could have been a joke, but his heart knew. The heart always knew. This was no joke. John was the kind of man who always listened to his heart. And right now, his heart wanted Roger’s blood. For, in some bizarre way, Roger wasn’t only insulting Veronica, but he was insulting you. He couldn’t handle both indiscretions from the same man, a man whom he loved, in the same night, in the same breath. This was very clear in John’s mind: it wasn’t just about Veronica, it wasn’t just about him, and it wasn’t just about bringing you here, but it was some odd mixture of the three, that or something else entirely. Either way, those words, those four words could end friendships. They were band-ending words. They were destruction. And even though he wanted answers and retribution, he also knew he couldn’t move. He was holding your hand, you were two hands holding, and now, well, now the truth was out there–Veronica wasn’t just someone he could hide from you anymore.

Veronica was there in the room with you all, now.

Deacy’s grip on your hand was getting painful. While the men at the table were crying out in protest, and while Deacy was stuck waltzing to those terrible words as if he couldn’t listen to any other song, you couldn’t not react. You couldn’t not say something, do something. It just wasn’t the kind of person you were.

Why was everyone just acting like this was okay? Or normal? When it was so clear to everyone Deacy was suffering greatly at what Roger had said. Why were they all just sitting there? Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? That fact was making you furious with loyalty. Well, fine. You’d do something about it.

Dressed in your golden brocade, velvet pants, and fantastic orange pumps, you’d be the man.

It was seconds after Roger had said it. Seconds only.

“Replacing Veronica already, mate?”

And you wrenched your hand out of Deacy’s–which took considerable effort. Maybe he had been subconsciously trying to hold you back, or maybe he needed your strength–you didn’t know. But you knew you were going to do something about Roger.

Jim Hutton had stood, and Freddie was pushing him back down into his seat.

Brian May was saying that Rog had gone too far.

Deacy couldn’t move.

And you were marching over to Roger; it was your favorite form of intimidation. A woman, giving her best runway walk, but as a means of threatening someone, was a powerful sight to behold, and maybe one of the most powerful feelings ever.

You saw Roger switch his blue eyes to your olive ones.

You heard Deacy finally breathe behind you.

With every ounce of strength you had, with every wish in your heart, and every thought in your head, you swung at Roger Taylor.

The punch was equal parts spectacular, empowering, and excruciating to your musician’s fingers.

As Roger fell backwards into a waiter carrying a tray full of wine and elaborate dinner creations, you realized you were screaming at him. At first it wasn’t even coherent words, just rage made sound, but then the anger manifested into something everyone could understand:

“You saw her body for him!”

Roger flinched on the floor.

And everyone in your group stopped breathing in unison, stopped moving, stopped everything. Time stopped with those words. Those words screwed Roger to the spot, and your courage intensified, your righteous indignation was fanned by the flames of Roger’s petrified awe.

And you screamed it again, because you could tell it had hurt him more than the punch had. “You saw her body for him!”

Roger’s face was outlined in disturbed shock; he didn’t know you knew about Veronica, and that was power over him, and you were going to use it to hurt him back for hurting Deacy.

“You saw her body for him, Roger Taylor!” You were standing over him, and you didn’t know what anyone else was doing, how they looked, or what they were thinking; all you cared about was protecting the man you were falling in love with; that was all that mattered; if the rest of them were going to stand there and let Roger say those heinous words, they could sure as hell stand there and let him get punished for it. What bothered you the most was that it shouldn’t be you doing this; it should be any of them, it should be all of them. Maybe your privilege was not having to live through what had happened to Veronica, and maybe that made it less personal for you, making it easier for you to act, but Roger’s words were nothing but personal, and they were meant to harm, and he needed to know that wasn’t just going to fly anymore. Especially if it was aimed at Deacy, and especially if you were here to do something about it.

Roger was getting up, covered in wine and pasta sauces.

You whispered it this time, into his face, into his true blue eyes, “You saw her body for him; how could you say that to him? You love him, and you’d say that! To him? That’s not love, Rog.” Tears of rage were stinging your eyes, piercingly bright from rage.

Roger couldn’t talk, he couldn’t move.

You slapped him this time.

“Say it!” You said, sharply.

Roger said nothing, hie eyes widening with memory and realization.

“Say it!” You repeated; you wanted to take him back to that moment, in the hospital with John, when Roger had saved John, when he had rescued John from himself, and this was the best way to do it–the only way to do it.

Roger was silent, but it was written all over his face: he knew what you were doing, wise and emotionally brilliant as he was, he understood every move you had made. Even though he was just starting to wake up to what he had done, he was also, maybe, feeling something akin to respect for you, if not a bit of real fear as well.

“What? You want to hit me?” You said, ready to go word for word if made him realize just how terribly he had hurt Deacy with those four easy words.

Maybe Roger did want to hit you, but he wouldn’t.

And maybe you hadn’t made the best choices for defending Deacy–whom you were sure could defend himself perfectly fine under any other circumstance but this one. But, your gut told you, and you always tried to listen to your gut, that this path was the right one. And as for waiting for Deacy to bring up Veronica, well Roger had kind of ruined that, and you saying what you had, and reacting how you had, certainly had let the cat out of the fucking bag on this one. You wouldn’t take it back though; if no one else was going to stand up for Deacy when he couldn’t, fuck it, you would. Every damn time.

You raised a dark eyebrow at Roger, ready to go whole hog one this one.

And Roger knew it; he saw it in your grey eyes.

And that’s when Roger ran from the restaurant, without saying another word.

A handful of seconds later, before anyone had said anything, before anyone had been able to say anything else, Jim Hutton shook off his husband’s hand, and sprinted after Roger Taylor. The sound of his chair falling to the floor, reverberated around the too silent room of the cavernous restaurant.

You heard Miami talking.

Freddie was asking you something.

You looked at Deacy, you could only see Deacy, and you thought, “What have I done?”


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Apartment, Some Like It Hot, The Seven Year Itch, Sabrina…

Jim Hutton had always wanted to drive Roger’s Alfa Romeo. But, when the cards were down on the table, who didn’t? Jim wouldn’t have described himself as a gear-head. He might have said he was a good Catholic boy from Ireland who had a perchance for good bar-tending skills, barber-y, and cater-waitering. He wasn’t into cars as a hobby, and for Jim there was a clear class divide between people who drove cars for necessity and people who collected cars. Collecting cars was something people with money did. For fun. Purely for fun; this wasn’t always a concept Jim easily wrapped his head around: spending money for fun. And, until Freddie, Jim had never been in possession of having enough money to really peruse the finer things in life. A car for Jim had always been a means to get to and from work and never as an instrument of enjoyment. And Freddie, generous to a fault, never ceased to shower Jim with everything he had been denied or had denied himself through strict duty of survival. Roger, who maybe had seven cars all told (that Jim knew about), had names for each of them, claimed they all had personalities, different capabilities, and loyalties, saw cars companions.

“Roger?” Jim said, living his best life, top down, having really opened up the goddess in red. They were doing about 80 mph.

Roger moaned. His blond hair was whipping in the breeze, his head hung over the side of his door; he had already vomited once. His blazer had been abandoned. Come to think of it, he was feeling abandoned himself. Abandoned by his own abilities of perception and common sense. He kept thinking about Deacy. What he had said. And why. And that he’d give anything to fix it; he’d give anything to fix Deacy, and had. He had been the one to see her body, after all. And he’d do it again, if the choice came his way again. He was always willing to torture himself at the expense of others. And boy, he had really outdone himself this time. He knew exactly the right words to say to destroy his best friend, and he had said them, without a second thought, without caring, with the desire to harm. It hadn’t been his finest moment. I mean, he had dazzled; the audience had been captivated, and he had always loved that unique feeling, the feeling of holding a group of people in the palm of his hand. It was a rush like no other. It was one thing to do it how Freddie did it, with his vocals and his acrobatics, but it was an entirely different enterprise to do it with the tone of your voice, the flick of a wrist, and a well placed designer suit. So, in a very real sense, it had been one of his finer moments, but in an entirely different sense, it had been his worst. What have I done? He couldn’t dance around it any longer.

“Hey, Roger?!” Jim repeated, ready to perform, trying his hardest to reach Roger.

“Not again…” Roger sighed.

Doing his best John Travolta, Jim said, “Why it could be Greased Lightnin’!”

“Jim, no; not again, mate; I’m begging you.” Roger said, swallowing hard. “If you sing that song again, I’ll throw up on you–I swear. I’m putting my foot down.”

“Rog—it’s my prime jive.”

“Never. Ever. Say that again.” He wasn’t finding the humor in any of it.

This was their fifth or sixth time around the roundabout. And there was no end in sight. Jim could keep this carousel going all night. He had nowhere else he’d rather be, and nothing else better to do in this moment than to bring Roger back from whatever precipice he was currently gazing into. The void was calling Roger’s name, and it would be quite simply over Jim’s dead body for Roger to reach it.

“Can we please get off this thing?” Roger shouted over the sounds of skidding rubber. “I think you’ve made your point.”

“You know very well I’m not taking us off until you laugh–a real, honest to God laugh. Those were the rules. I can play games, too.” Jim, grinning, kept driving. He hoped he was also driving his point home. He wasn’t so sure, though. And he was terrible at playing games, but that’s what Freddie loved most about him. He was pure, well-lived, hard-worked, and entirely devoted to people.

“I don’t think you’re understanding my predicament here.” Roger moved with gravity and speed, leaning into Jim, leaning out of his mind.

“Oh, I understand it perfectly; you’re the one that isn’t understanding it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Roger hated it when someone presumed to know him better than he knew himself.

“You’re being a child for starters.” Jim said, checking for cops.

“A child?!” His voice was higher than usual; this was a good sign; it meant Roger knew he was being a child, but was trying to hide it from everyone–including, and most importantly, from himself.

“Yes.” Jim confirmed. “Causing all this drama because you fell in love and couldn’t handle it.”

“But Jim–!”

“But Jim nothing. Childish! That’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard; causing a scene worthy of Billy Wilder in the restaurant back there; breaking my heart and breaking poor Johnny’s, too. Not to mention the meat grinder you’ve put your own through. And for what?” Jim was shaking his head, irritated beyond belief; he took the goddess in red up to 85 mph. “Love is a gift, you fucking idiot.”

“Jim, listen–!” Roger was holding on for dear life in more ways than one.

“No, you listen here Roger Meddows Taylor; grow the fuck up. And stop telling me what to do or say; if I want to sing every God-blessed song from Grease, I bloody well will.”

“But–!”

“I solve my problems and the see the light!”

Roger groaned loudly and melodramatically; this was, perhaps, for a singer himself, the most perfect torture to endure. Jim’s voice wasn’t perhaps the best suited to belt the Frankie Valli hit, but he was enthusiastic and determined, which was really half the battle when singing any song. A talented singer, though, Jim was not. Not that it would ever stop him. Nor should it. Freddie always told him it didn’t matter how he sounded, but what he felt. Jim always held that in his heart, and applied it confidently throughout his life.

“We’ve got a lovin’ thing, we gotta feed it right.”

“Jim, you’re killing me.” Roger didn’t want to see the light; color was light after all, only reflected light; he didn’t want to see the truth, he didn’t want to feed his love, he didn’t want Lydia. Not really. Maybe. Fine, he wanted her. He loved her. But. Well. The unavoidable fact here. The one undisputed fact traipsing through his mind was this: What if Lydia ended up like Veronica? What if she died? Terribly? Suddenly? And Without rhyme or reason? It could happen to anyone. It had to Deacy, and it had completely ruined him. For years. What if Lydia died like Veronica had?

This fear was keen, deep-set, and so ingrained at this point it had driven him to a life of perpetual bachelorhood and luxurious cad-ing around. It was perhaps so hidden in his heart and mind he didn’t even know it was there until now.

“No–you’re killing yourself; love is a gift, and it won’t be wasted on you if you accept it.” Jim took a deep breath and continued, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “There ain’t no danger we can go too far; we start believing now that we can be what we are. Grease is the word!”

Laughing, Roger said, “I will give you this car if you stop singing.” He had laughed. It was the sound of thin ice breaking in early March. It was the sound of coffee. The sound of velvet.

Jim immediately switched gears and slowed the goddess in red. The laugh had been genuine and light; accidentally won when Roger had least expected it. Roger hated losing. Usually to a fault. Something about this didn’t entirely feel like losing, though. He still wasn’t sure he liked it. Jim did seem rather proud of himself, very smiling, very pleased, maybe a little too pleased.

“I’ve always wanted this car; thank you, Roger.”

“I was joking.” Roger smiled at Jim. “I was joking! There’s no way I’m giving you her.”

“Oh, I think this will be fine payment for saving your life, reuniting you with Lydia, and helping you fix this mess with the band.” Jim wasn’t giving an inch.

“I don’t deserve your help.”

“Not more of that; I can open her up again if you’re going to just slip back into that bollocks.” His eyebrows danced, hand on the gear shaft, ready to pounce.

“No, no!” Roger yelled. “I just mean…I don’t know what I mean.”

Roger was a loquacious kind of fellow. He wasn’t often in the position of not knowing how to express himself or what to say. Words were failing him, like the colors had. Like he had failed himself. What if he said it out loud? What would happen? If he gave song to his fear? What would go down? Would Jim understand? Probably. Would the world end? Probably not? Roger wasn’t sure he could trust logic anymore; he wasn’t seeing colors, and logic couldn’t explain that. Maybe there were some things that logic couldn’t explain. The heart has reasons the mind knows not. Some French dude said that once, and Roger really felt those words. He hoped he lived by them. He wanted to live by them. He used to think if he could trust anything, it would be his heart, and recently, he had really failed himself on this account. He had been doing anything and everything to not listen to it. And now, he had to find his way back to it, if he could.

“Let me do for you what you did for Johnny once.” Jim said. He let the words hang in the air for a bit, because they were important; Roger needed to remember he was oddly noble and desperately loyal. Or that he had been. And that he could be again. Jim hadn’t been lying before: when he had first been introduced to the band and met Roger, he had been somewhat disappointed by this seemingly vacuous and vainglorious blond trash. Over time, Jim saw how much of it was an act of sorts; yes, Roger was emotional, yes he was volatile, yes he said what was on his mind no matter what it was; but, Roger was also the most caring person he had ever met, the most perceptive, and the most unwilling to admit he was a good person.

“Y/N tried to save you, too. In her own way, I’m guessing. But she tried. She stood up for Deacy and for you.”

“About that–How did she know?” Roger asked. His heart rate had increased just thinking about what you had said. “She scared the shit out of me; I’m not ashamed to admit it. She was the last person I was expecting to punch me out. But she did, and with more than her fists. There’s no way Deacy told her about Veronica already. Just no fucking way, mate.”

Taking the deep breath of truth-telling, Jim admitted, “I told her.”

He finally turned off the roundabout and headed towards Garden Lodge. He slowed drastically so he could safely look at Roger’s reaction. Trying to gauge anything flashing on Roger’s face wasn’t the easiest task while driving, or while he was in his current condition. His blue eyes were streaming with tears, whether from wind, his excess of emotions, or from being sick–it was hard to tell. Jim didn’t like to speculate, but he had a feeling it was all three. “Someone had to tell her. And I don’t regret doing it, just as I don’t regret wanting to punch you out earlier, just as I don’t regret coming after you, and saving you now. Though the hell I’m going to take for all it isn’t something I’m looking forward to reckoning with.”

Roger nodded, taking it all in. “I would have told her myself if…” he couldn’t find the words any more than he could find the colors. All he could see was Veronica’s blue Mercedes-Benz. That one had come back; maybe the others could too?

“You would have yourself if you hadn’t been burying your head up your arse?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“So…the colors?” Jim asked, trying to peel the onion that was Roger’s psyche.

“I don’t know, Jim.”

Jim loudly rolled his eyes. “I don’t buy that. The conditions were clear: you need to level with me, Roger.”

Roger knew Jim was right.

He took a breath, trying to steady himself, and he started leveling.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fushimi Inari Taisha

Lydia didn’t know what had gotten into her lately. Well, she had an idea, she had a notion, but it seemed entirely unlikely. The color “orange” had gotten into her. And “purple.” A couple of colors of all things. Fuck me, she thought. She never thought she’d see the day when colors would dominate her life. Especially those two in particular.

I mean, worshiping someone from a far was completely different than falling in love with them in person, after meeting them, after fucking them in their red sports car; this color she at least knew and thought of as a friend. It is the little things you find yourself not expecting, Lydia pondered. Especially with sexual encounters; she did as much as she could to experience a variety liaisons with anybody who was willing–male or female–because sex, on the whole, was the same with everybody, but it was the finesse and eccentricities of any particular person that made it special, profound, and captivating. And any artist lived to collect experiences. Love, she thought, was like the spectrum of light she couldn’t see. So, even if her colors were always gendered for her, she never thought of love in such simplistic, binary terms.

She adjusted her raspberry beret, carrying her painting supplies up the five story walk-up she shared with you. It was, in fact, one of the colors she could see. Lydia had tritanopia, which was a fancy-ass way of saying she was colorblind; she couldn’t tell the difference, on the main, between yellow and blue (which also meant green was fucked over by proxy). Everything in her world was a mess of reds, pinks, mauves, light blues, teals, and dark blues; all colors for her were traditional boy/girl gender markers; the irony of such, especially regarding her sexual proclivities, you never let her forget. This made being a visual artist something of a challenge, but Lydia liked challenges–in fact she thrived off of them. And, well, Roger Taylor was quite the unexpected challenge. He was a man full of color and light, and she was a color-blind artist who painted in monotones. They were inherently incompatible from page one. And yet…and yet…she was entirely drawn to him. Maybe even in ways she couldn’t yet express. But she was on her way to doing so: the colors.

She had thought she was up to the task though, or that’s what she had committed to until she had started her most recent project. That’s when the confusion had seeped into her life–the colors. She had been working on a harsh landscape–all of her landscapes looked harsh and science-fiction-esque; there was something about bleeding all the color from a setting when the color was supposed to be there that made the setting feel, well, unsettling. Lydia had a perchance for putting people on edge, keeping them on their toes, making them intimidated; it was the best way to test them. Trying to push someone away and seeing if they chase you is the best way to see if they’ll stick around, she thought. It perhaps wasn’t the most upfront, honest, or genuine tactic, but it had merits all its own in other regards. Either way, she was young, hot, and determined to do whatever she wanted, which is more or less exactly what she did. Especially regarding her art. She couldn’t experience most colors like everyone else around her could, indeed, like most artists could. Instead of it being her Achilles heel, she decided to make it her sword. She’d cut color out of her art and do things her own way. She’d empower herself to create what she wanted. But now, unexpectedly, what she wanted was two colors she couldn’t see.

At the door to your apartment, she took out her crown key chain and unlocked the door. She scrambled inside, carrying an odd assortment of shopping bags full of items she usually didn’t buy. Most of them were full of paint, but they weren’t blacks, and whites, and greys: they were full of colors, most of which she couldn’t really correctly see. “Orange,” a thing she understood as a concept only, had been very appealing to her lately. One bag was full of every “shade” “orange” had to offer. It didn’t even matter to her most of the shades looked pink to her; to someone else, they’d be “orange” and they’d be strikingly powerful, a blow to the gut, putting your fist in a vat of hot oil. The rest were shades of “purple.” A literal mess of colors for her. A mess she intended to whip into a frenzy.

This wasn’t typical. This sort of dive into color was abnormal, and when she had attempted it in the past, it was something that had made her feel bitter towards painters who could see color and who used them like it was no big deal, without careful appreciation, or consideration for those who couldn’t. The old grudges were the hardest to overcome. And because she couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive, she would paint those feelings and resentments into her art. It was, after all, the best revenge.

That was, until Roger Taylor, however. Because now, all she could think about was the entire world of color to which she was mostly blind. The entire world of color that was so vital to who Roger was as a person and to understanding who he was as a person. What she had gained from their limited conversations was his absolute obsession with color and art. He had no idea she was colorblind, so he had had no idea he was making her feel an uncomfortable mixture of jealousy and fiery hatred; the overwhelming and, frankly, attractive passion with which he spoke of his home, his clothes, and his vast collections of artworks had diffused and tempered her own indignation into something resembling a very specific form of arousal. She was turned on, for the most part, by passion. As long as someone had passion in something, for something, it made her insatiably aroused. Anger could also be an aphrodisiac, and quite the powerful one at that. When mixed together, well, that created the scene between them that had transpired in his Alfa Romeo. All passion and anger linked together with consent and desire. They were colors mixing, but even when Lydia mixed colors, they weren’t always logical or beautiful. 

John Deacon was thinking about Roger’s words. He couldn’t process them, or their power; they kept rocking back, like waves, hitting him again and again. “Replacing Veronica already, mate?” Every time he thought he had found his footing, another wave would hit him, bringing him back perpetually to that moment in time. He’d sink into the ocean that was his Roger’s words, and drown. He couldn’t come up for air. But air was all he wanted. He couldn’t move from his chair. Stuck between a wave and a hard sentence.

He was no stranger to being helplessly stuck in a moment in time. In fact, the past three years had been an elaborate exercise in either denying his present or relying way too much on his past. There were nights, when he’d close his eyes, and snuggle into bed, that he was brought back to her again, against his will. Suddenly, he’d be shoved into Veronica’s funeral, forced to relive every detail in technicolor. He’d be made to hear about her death–being summed to the hospital; these moments returned to him when he least expected it like a long lost friend. In a very real sense, however, she was a long lost friend. It was easier to think of her at times as if she had gone on an extended vacation. This wasn’t helpful, perhaps, in terms of realty and acceptance, but when things had been fresh, and the raw wounds still ripe with red aching, it was easier to think of her hidden away some place he could visit, in some pocket of reality only he could access. A place just for them.

Those words, however, weren’t anything he wanted to revisit; being ceaselessly rocked back into memory wasn’t enjoyable for him, and it may never be again. She was there.

She was always there.

Always in his memory, and distance and time, being what they were, would inevitably switch those glass-hardened memories, specific pinpricks of pain, each targeted just for him, into shimmering translucence only vaguely having to do with the shape of her death. Every memory now was of her death. The day they met–it had been raining, her death was there waiting for them; when they shared their first, hesitant kiss, her death was there waiting for them; the first time they had made love, her death was watching from the corner; on their wedding day, her death was there, too. Every hard fact, every stone-cold truth had been painted diaphanous, rendered useless with a milky opalescence, a thickly painted layer called the certitude of her pending death. This fact followed him around day in and day out. He had almost become used to it. But, then, you had come into his life, and something ineffable had shifted in his heart.

“Replacing Veronica already, mate?” had been the linchpin of some seismic change within John Deacon, however. His hand tightened around yours.

Roger, it seemed, had caused, whether intentionally or not, certain unexpected changes for the people in his life he cared for most.

Lydia had been removing pell-mell paintings from her bedroom walls. Hoisting them under her arms, she’d walk them to her studio near the opposite side of the apartment. All she could think about was the color “orange.” Or, as she liked to think of it, “light red.” She knew the concept wasn’t perfect, she could point out “orange” for you if asked; she could show you the Fushimi Inari Shrine, and go “orange.” Though this wasn’t something she knew with her eyes like everyone else; this was something she knew because she had been told. There was a distinct pedagogical difference here. One was gifted from experience, the other from trusting someone else. Color for her was simultaneously trust and resentment.

That hard-earned talent of color identification had been learned from practice and something that could only be described as being tired of being mocked. She learned your colors to save face, to blend in, to assimilate.

Roger had changed some of this for her, however. “Orange” was a whole new concept now. And something called “Purple.” Roger was obsessed with the color she knew best as an odd teal, or sometimes a sharp pink depending on saturation and light. It was hard to discuss a color that was certain with others and definitely only one color in their minds: purple. When in hers it could dance between two different colors that made no sense to anyone else when she tried to describe them. Purple sauntered between two colors for her. A delicate balance always ready to tip at the flick of a wrist. Could be teal, could be pink. Life for Lydia was a mixed-bag, a guessing game. Good thing she liked games.

John Deacon usually liked games. This one, whatever Roger was playing at, however, he didn’t care for. At all. It made his stomach seize and his heart squirm.

“He didn’t mean it.” You said, squeezing his hand back. Your intuition told you something was wrong with Roger, and you wouldn’t back down from what you did, but you also knew standing up for him and looked like attacking him. He needed reminding, and quick what real sacrifice looked like before he did something, said something he could never take back. So, standing up for Deacy had been oddly also trying to stand up for Roger, and not just standing up to him. You had a sneaky suspicion standing up to Roger would always go hand in hand with something else.

“He did.” Deacy said, quietly, confusedly.

“There’s no way that man, who did for you what he did, meant what he said.” You explained.

“I think Y/N has the right path here, darling.” Freddie said. “People, even people you love, especially people you love, really, can say things they don’t mean. Terrible words that curse you to the spot; it doesn’t excuse it, but–”

“It is hard to reconcile those words with how much Rog cares for you.” Brian said, leaning forward. “It isn’t impossible, though. He loved Veronica so much, Deacy.”

“We all did.” Miami said, passing the waiter a 50 pound note when he returned with a round of martinis. “You know Roger…he’s all hot air and impulse.” He slyly sipped his drink, gazing at Deacy over it. “It is always a coin toss what comes out of his mouth.”

“Unpredictable.” Brain said, nodding in agreement.

“He loves you.” You said, trying to convey with your eyes what you words were failing to do.

“I’ve seen him say a lot of things, do a lot of questionable things, but he was…” Deacy said, trying to find the words again.

“Different?” Brian offered.

“Offensive?” Freddie tossed in.

“A fuckwad?” Miami posited.

“Undeniably all three?” Deacy laughed. The tension in the room slipped a bit with that laugh. You all sipped your drinks, trying to settle in and settle down. “Roger and I will have to deal with that later–in our own way.” He left it at that. “Though, should we make sure he’s okay?”

Deacy’s generosity was unparalleled. He had just been dressed down publicly by his best friend, and yet he still was able to scrape up some concern for the man; it made you love him even more. If the shoe was on the other foot, and if your outburst had been any indication, you weren’t sure you’d be able to locate a modicum of compassion for the man.

“Jim will keep him safe,” Freddie said, raising an eyebrow, “That or murder him; really hard to tell which at this point.”

“I’ve always liked Jim.” Miami remarked. “How about business?”

“Oh, shouldn’t we wait for Rog?” Freddie looked concerned about making such a decision without him.

“I think I can speak for him.” Brian retorted lightly.

“I don’t doubt that.” Miami said. He turned to you, “We weren’t introduced, I think. Before you punched my multi-million dollar-worth drummer.”

“Right.” You said. “Y/N L/N.” You held your hand out to Miami.

“Jim Beach.” He gave you his hand. It was soft, lotion-ed, rich. “Though, they call me Miami.”

“I’ve never met a place before. Charmed!” You simpered.

“Hmm. So, Y/N, what are you doing here tonight?” Never one to mince words, Miami was a go big or go home, come hard or not at all kind of guy. It was the lawyer in him. He knew how to use words to get what he wanted.

“I was invited here…I guess I’m not really sure why…?” You looked suddenly at Deacy then; it was an odd choice for a first date, now that you were thinking about it.

“I want her to play on the album.” Deacy said.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And someone saved my life tonight, sugar bear…

Roger Taylor sat across from Jim Hutton.

Freddie Mercury sat across from Brian May.

You sat across from John Deacon.

Miami Beach headed the awkward dinner party from Hell. At least that’s how he thought of it. He had better things to do than babysit a table of grown men and one unassuming woman. It was as if he had fallen into the Twilight Zone, and he didn’t like it one bit. He had nothing against you, but he had everything against this group of men. You seemed pleasant, and, sure, you had punched Roger in the face, but who among them hadn’t wished to do just that under certain circumstances? Under numerous circumstances? Miami was certain every single one of them had at least day dreamed about it. These men, though, they worked, day in and out, he was certain, to ruin his life. If they weren’t destroying hotel rooms in exotic countries they were spoiling perfectly decent dinner parties, charging in guns ablaze to tarnish business dinners. They couldn’t do a single thing like normal people. Everything was exaggerated. Everything was vibrant. Everything was terrible. He missed, longed for the days before he had become their manager. It had been simpler times. Nicer times. This had been, by the large, the worst blow out Miami had witnessed among the band since the “I’m in Love with My Car” debacle. This was the most expensive dinner he had ever paid for and the food hadn’t even arrived yet. He was starving. Irritated. Pessimistic. The only saving grace here was he could at least bill them for his time. And boy, was he ever going to hike up the rate.

Roger was moving food across his plate, not really focusing on what he was doing. How was he supposed to eat food with no color? Nothing about it looked appetizing. It smelled good, he supposed. It looked like wet shapes. Lumps. Bumps. He thought he was going to vomit again. He lifted a waste bin by his chair, put it in front of his face, waited, and nothing came up. He placed the bin back down, and looked at his dinner. Jim had made them a couple of steaks and potatoes garnished with shallots and asparagus. Everything was seasoned to perfection and cooked like a professional had slaved over it. And despite that Roger couldn’t even enjoy it, his self torture ran too deep, seeped from every pore, and crashed around his mind like his favorite set of cymbals. He was quite certain he didn’t deserve this meal, lovingly prepared for him by the only person who had cared to chase after him, any more than he deserved Lydia.

He was a mess. A lumpy mess.

“Roger,” Jim said between bites, “Stop acting like a child.”

“I’m not.” He whined.

Jim stared at Roger, who was still pushing food around his plate in some hollow attempt to make it look eaten. “You are.”

Roger rolled his eyes, shoving up the sleeves of his purple bathrobe. The rest of his clothes, covered in pasta sauces, noodles, wine, tears, and his own vomit, had been thrown in the washer by Jim. He wouldn’t serve Roger dinner when he was, as Jim had put it, “smelling like an Italian wake.” Roger had washed his hair, scrubbed his body and cried in the shower for the second time in one day. He was falling apart. Had been. He actually felt somewhat better now. He wasn’t hysterical anymore, at least. That had to count for something?

He felt the bathrobe. Fluffy and safe, like a puppy’s hug. It was still grey to him. He frowned.

“Okay, so the whole point of this is for us to share a meal and for you to fess up. I’m holding you to doing at least one of those.” Jim dipped a piece of steak in an au jus, and accented his speech by pointing his fork at Roger.

Roger took a defiant bite, and stayed pointedly silent.   
Jim banged a fist on the table.

“Roger Taylor, you’re going to talk to me or I’ll throw you back to the wolves without so much as a whoopsie daisy.”

Miami should have felt like a wolf in his suit; however, having it splattered with pasta sauces and flecks of meat made it difficult for even him to take himself seriously, let alone the band. He was more a sheep acting the part of the wolf. Or a hamster. This wasn’t the power dynamic he was expecting. Roger going ballistic, Y/N swooping in for the punchline. None of it had set this meeting on to the right spinning edge. This top was all akimbo. 

“What exactly do you mean you want her to play on the record?” Miami asked nicely.

“We are going to need other musicians, or one exceptionally skilled musician to play a few horn sections; as far as I last knew, no one in the band can rock a trumpet.” Deacy said, taking a sip of his drink. His grey-green eyes shimmering with some hidden card up his sleeve.

“Roger is kind of a blowhard, though.” Brian said, trying to smile through the thick chaos and confusion. Everything about this meeting was just so precisely arranged: some huge fight and now everything and everyone had to find their footing and it wasn’t equal and it wasn’t fair. If Brian didn’t know better, he would have thought it had all been staged; he wouldn’t ever put something like that past Deacy. He was wily, that one.

Everyone laughed an uncomfortable laugh.

“Deacy,” You said, softly, “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to first, or even what I could play myself.”

“Fair point.” Deacy said. “Y/N, do you want to play on our next record.”

You looked at the men assembled around you.

Freddie gave you a wink and an encouraging nod. That nod said, you’d be a fool to say no.

Brian glared at Freddie, shrugging. He loudly leaned back and rolled his eyes, scoffing. It was as if his opinion didn’t matter at all.

Miami raised his hands as if to say, I have nothing to do with this decision.

“Well, yeah, I do.” You said. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Great. What instruments can you play, just as a formality?” Deacy continued sipping, ignoring Brian.

“Saxophone, piano, trumpet, viola, French horn, and some very limited flute–and I mean very limited it.” You said attempting to not blush.

“That’s quite the list, darling!” Freddie exclaimed.

“Music is my life.” You said simply.

“That’s all very sweet,” Brian said, “And don’t think I don’t like you, Y/N, in saying this, but you can’t just promise someone the chance to play on the record without consulting us all and without having them audition.”

“I’m sure she plays beautifully.” Freddie smiled at Brian.

“I have a say in this band just as much as the rest of you.” Brian said shortly.

“Of course you do.” Deacy said. “You started it, after all, right?”

“Yes.”

“Which means, what? you and Rog get seven votes a piece compared to Freddie and I getting one a each?”

“Okay, this isn’t productive.” Miami cut in. “You all get one vote each; you all know that. Stop this petty shit. Y/N, you’ll audition for us in two days? I’ll send a car for you.”

“Two days?” You asked.

“Yes–what do you have class or something?”   
“Technically, yes; I do.”

“We will do it in the evening then.” Miami said, closing the subject once and for all. “Now, I believe we have other more pressing matters to discuss concerning this record beyond the machinations of an aspiring musician.”   
“Yeah,” Brian said, “Mostly how we are evenly divided about the record. And no one is willing to compromise.”

“No one should have to compromise!” Deacy said. “You’re missing my point, yet again, entirely and intentionally.”

“I’m missing nothing.” Brian said.

“Oh because you never miss anything.” Deacy retorted.

“We could fight about something else, maybe? For a break? How about what to order for dessert or the length of my mustache?”

The men silently looked at Freddie. You held back a laugh.

“That fits you all to a Tee, gentlemen.” Miami said. “What? Don’t look surprised. You all never agree on anything. We don’t need to alert the media here. In fact, we’d need to alert them if you ever agreed on anything without some kind of a fight. Now that would be a first page story. Queen Agrees! Lord, we’d sell hundreds of papers.”

“It isn’t much of a story.” Roger said.

“Well, good thing I’m easily entertained.” Jim sighed. “Paint me a picture.”

“Not funny.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“Yeah. Feels particularly cruel at this moment.”

“Well, you’d know about particularly cruel, wouldn’t you?”

“I spent the night with Lydia. At the party. I had met her the night before. At some nothing club playing nothing music. But she looked like everything. She was everything. The moment I saw her the entire place changed, and the way my heart beat shifted, and it hasn’t been the same sense. She was everything. From the second she started walking towards me to the moment she licked my hand.”

“She licked your hand?” Jim had a spoon of mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth.

“She did. And I felt it shiver and zap through my entire body.”

Jim raised an eyebrow at Roger.

“You heard me. My entire body.” He continued. “I invited her to the party, wasn’t sure if she’d even come. But she did. And I’ve never seen anyone look the way she did. All curves and red satin. My personal Satan. Like she had been made for me and I for her. I sound like an idiot. I hate myself. What’s wrong with me?”

Jim laughed. “No. You sound like a person in love. You don’t sound like an idiot at all. You’re in love. You said it to me yourself; don’t shake your blond head at me, you wanker.”

“Sure.” Roger grimaced. “I couldn’t keep my eyes from her. Or my hands. God maybe they had been made to touch her body. I always thought they had been made to drum. I don’t know anymore. Funny isn’t it? That something on my body could have been made for her? Feeling her was like feeling myself; I knew her already, entirely, completely. Every crest and crown.”

“Don’t forget to eat.” Jim reminded him.

“You know how it is; I get going and can’t stop.” He wiped a tear from his eyes and resumed eating, slowly. “The thing is, I just don’t, I mean…”

“You don’t date monogamously?” Jim offered. “You’re a notorious cad? A bounder? A rascal! A cur? A blackguard.”

“Right, mate.” Roger responded. “Please stop. You’ve made your point.”

“I could go on. Are you sure?”

“Very.”

“Rapscallion.”

“Stop.”

“Bastard.”

“Thank you. Going on.” Roger said, trying to redirect the train. “Nothing against it. Or those who do it. I know my limitations; I don’t trust myself to not stray. But with her. I thought for the first time that I could dedicate myself to her and be happy–content and joyous, and pleasured and pleased, and entertained and fascinated forever. Full stop. In a second, maybe two, I knew. I just knew. And everything felt right, secure, and safe.”

“And then you fucked it up?”

“Yes. Well, no. Not yet. You’re jumping ahead.”

“I’m jumping ahead?” Freddie simpered.

“Yes!” Brian said.

“I’m jumping ahead?!”

“Yeah!” Brain said heavily. “Roger isn’t even here.”

“You’re the one who said you could speak for him.” Deacy said.

“You want to make some rhythmic disco record and have our approval?” Brain asked. “You’re out of your head.”

“Yes. In short.” Deacy said. Freddie nodded beside him. “Oh, and I resent your tone whenever you say disco, for the record.”

“How about club music?” Freddie offered, trying to make peace.

“Whatever. Same difference just a horse of a different color.”

Deacy groaned. “Listen we’ve made several records and never all agreed on everything going on in it. Why start now?”

The men laughed.

“Look at it like this, darling.” Freddie offered. “This record is happening. You’ll have tracks. You can do your thing. We intend to do ours. Deacy and I have a united vision. And you can either work with us or against us. We’d rather have it go down easily and work like oil.”

“But we will take whatever we can get.” Deacy said. It sounded like a threat. A final line in the sand. “We’ve started some really compelling tunes, Bri.”

“It isn’t disco trash,” Freddie smiled, “as Roger likes to call it.”

Brain sighed loudly. “I don’t like this. I notice and appreciate Deacy having to compromise before. And I notice his talent has excelled in recent years. So, I’ll just allow it.”

“Allow it?” Deacy said, voice raising.

“Wrong choice of words. Would you prefer roll over and take it?” Brain held is hands up in peace. A light smile played across his face.

“All we are asking is the chance to try something we haven’t yet.” Deacy said, a pleading conciliatory note in his voice. “It’s what Queen has always been about. We explore. We originate.”

“We’re pioneers.” Freddie said. “But with better style.”

“Her style was impeccable. Her movements. Her grace. When we made love in my car—oh your car, now, mate.” Roger smirked at Jim.

“Wait—did you just say ‘made love’?” Jim shrieked incredulously. “Did Roger fucking Taylor just use the expression to make love?”

The men laughed.

“I might have.” Roger admitted.

“Make. Love.” Jim said. “Wow. Well, now I’ve bloody well right heard everything.”

“Okay, okay! come off it!” Roger laughed. This time wiping away tears of joy instead of sorrow. “I took her home and, and…” he paused, thinking. Remembering. “I took her home and everything changed again. It had been a handful of hours and she changed my life again. She changed everything. I was in too deep.”

It was that night again, last night, and Roger closed the door to Lydia’s bedroom. He pushed up against the door with his back, leaning backwards, slowly, seductively. He looked cool, effortless, slick. He stared at her through his sepia-colored glasses, and waited for her to make her move. And boy, did she ever.


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Young is the night it feels so right now that you’re mine…

Everything was black and white.

He was surrounded.

It was the apotheosis of fainting. Some unification he couldn’t yet describe, yet intuitively knew like the beat of every song he had ever written; his music had been screwed out of his heart as a bloody pulp and smashed on each page, all pomegranate seeds and peach pits; his art, and hers were works of color and intense emoting. And that was part of it, art was intricately part of this feeling, of this experience; because being with her was being with a walking piece of art.

It was, because he knew things like this, the Stendhal syndrome.

Roger had taken off his sepia-toned glasses. They were round and almost delicate in a spindly way that did much to betray the inner workings of the man who wore them. Flashy on the outside cotton-candy frail on the inside. Much like the candy confection, his moods were transient yet shockingly robust; they’d pierce you in the heart and evaporate after doing so, like some joke only he knew the punchline to, which is exactly how he liked it. This, however, did not mean his feelings were impermanent or purely esoteric; Roger preferred a full-bodied expression of his feelings at all times. For him, feelings were something you could touch and should touch. And he sensed the woman across from him, more or less, had the exact same emotional profile. Her profile was fine, fine, fine.

Deacy always loved those particular sunglasses; he had told Roger on many occasions they were his “film school” glasses, because they made everything appear like an old movie from the 1930s or that odd time in the 1970s when everything was a nostalgic throwback in color tones. It always came back to color. Of all of Roger’s pairs, those sepia ones were Deacy’s singular mission and desire to steal the most frequently. Roger was very protective of his collection, and no matter how many pairs of sepia-colored sunglasses Roger bought for Deacy, the bassist always only wanted Rog’s personal pair. This was, as everything else had been for them, some unspoken, spoken game. Though at this time, the men had no idea they were both slowly engaging in the same game, near the same time, with women with whom they were both falling in love. These decisions are barely noticed or noted, and yet they happen everyday. Rock stars are no exception to this rule.

With the glasses now removed, Roger could see Lydia’s paintings in full force. All harsh lines, cutting and uneven, and deeply felt, as if necessary. It was as if she had sliced her arm open and painted with her own black blood, as if she had smeared her very life on the canvas. Her fingerprints covered every line, even though she never used such techniques. Despite this critical distance, every line and impression spoke of some Truth, some mixed emotion, some passionate distraction, a powerful act of consolation.

They gave him pause. Piece after piece. Parts of her, all of her. He froze, for a moment. It had only been a moment. But it always is just merely a moment. We romanticize it in our own minds, making some trivial seconds into an expanse of time that shook us for eons. When in reality the moments when love happens are brief, singular, and yet universal. Another paradox; Deacy would be pleased. To each person who is having them, it could be about anything, and yet the feeling always equals the same emotion. It could be over coffee, the passing of a note, a whisper, a laugh, a glance; bringing her something that was lost, fixing something that was broken; the mundane, the easy, the forgettable, yet entirely and always recalled in flowery prose and undying poems. Shakespeare wrote sonnets for a reason, folks.

So, to Roger, a closeted romantic, and he certainly thought of himself as a new-aged Shakespeare, this moment in space-time did something to his heart he couldn’t entirely understand at this time, which was saying something since he had the emotional intelligence and sophistication of an FBI agent performing opera. All cosmic depth and precision of intention. What did he remember the most? The art–her art? The use of color and light to create depth where there was none, or should be none? Or was it her? Her torn red dress, his rainbow blazer, her golden hair. When exactly did they become one, those ideas? Inextricably tied together, black and white and her, all color and light? Well, it was our friend Stendhal. Cocky asshat, Roger thought. Roger had never met Stendhal, separated as they were by time and space, yet that jerk was right. Roger hated it when other people were right; on all occasions, he preferred to be the right one. Though, Lydia was right. She was right. She had probably always been right. He just hadn’t met her yet. But maybe he had always known anyway.

Distracted as he was by the art and the beautiful woman in front of him, he still managed to close the door by leaning on it, suggestively. Though, everything with Roger Taylor was suggestive. The moment in question happened during this small gesture. The closing of a door. And we’d all like to think he was leaning up against it as a seduction, a keen way to put the moves on the unacknowledged, unrealized love of his life. We’d all like to think Roger was that good, and that invincible in the face of ineffable beauty.

He wasn’t.

Lydia hadn’t noticed, she had chosen that moment to close her eyes, to swipe her hair back, to turn her neck, and gaze off, performing her own quiet seduction while he should have been performing his. She had ever been his match, you see.

In reality, Roger had leaned up against the door, closing it on accident, because he had fainted. It had lasted for a handful of simple seconds, nothing long, nothing melodramatic, or even noticeable to anyone else but himself. He had fainted in the face of beauty. There was something shockingly Platonic about it, which was ironic considering Plato hated the arts and artists with a passion that held hands with an outright and violent jealousy. The way Roger saw it, if he had been Plato and his mentor (Socrates) had told him he could only study philosophy or poetry, not both, and was forced to pick philosophy, well, he’d hate the arts too. Despite Plato’s blatant envy, every Platonic Form working in this room swirled around Roger, intermingled, and he experienced a keen apotheosis with the Godhead; his life would never be the same again.

He fainted.

His too blue eyes rolled back, and he felt his vision blur into blackness, all color erased, all light evaporated: he held hands with some divine Form of the Arts and Love, and everything else fell away.

He fainted. Fuck Stendhal, he thought upon waking.

He fainted. Mere seconds, but he never escaped. His body lightly became suspended in action, leaning back without his power or will to control it. He had gone some other place. That elusive place of creation no artist can name. He had gone there, on a seventeen second journey. Part of him would always be there. Part of it would always be her.

He fainted. Eyes gone, mind some place else. His body folded into the door, casually, elegantly. He leaned. His back hit the door, and he swayed with it. They danced together until the door closed. His body followed the force of it, forward, then back.

He fainted. Maybe it was her, her beauty alone. Or her artworks, and their soul-swaddling beauty. Maybe it was both. Maybe it didn’t matter. Plato would know which it was, Roger thought. And Shakespeare would be capable with his numerous talents to put it into words, and Stendhal would be able to explain it him. He’d understand.

He fainted. Wrapped in the arms of Stendhal, Roger sunk bog-deep. It was an immovable free-fall. Another paradox.

But then, Roger woke up. He came too. And he saw her.

He saw Lydia.

He thought, besides a good fuck you to Stendhal, he could look at her forever, admire her, like work of art; everyday he’d notice something he hadn’t before that would only increase her beauty, which could never be diminished. Something in her was eternal. Roger waxed Platonic. Though nothing about his feelings for Lydia were remotely platonic.

He had fainted. Slipped away for a mere seventeen seconds. Come back from some journey. And he saw her.

That’s probably when he knew. When the first hint creeped up to say hi. He hadn’t listened, though. He pushed it back down, trying to deny what was there. And that denial, that split-second choice to ignore his heart and the existential beauty trip he had been on, that’s when Stendhal reared his ugly head again. He hadn’t noticed the second occurrence, because he had been distracted by her kiss.

It was easy to forgive such an indiscretion.

Kisses can be magic.

But so can Stendhal: that’s when the hallucinations started.

All the colors started vanishing, but he hadn’t noticed.

So, he slipped further down the rabbit hole; this he would regret later, but not now. Not with her tongue down his throat.

He had fainted, up against the door, then he came back. And he saw Lydia. She peered at him. Head turned to profile, eyes down, then flicked up to his.

Well, he couldn’t resist.

Could you?

They moved in syncopation. Him first, then she mirrored him. She didn’t notice his sluggish start. And he shook it off as ecstasy–he wasn’t entirely wrong. He didn’t notice the lack of color, because the entire room was black and white already. It is hard to blame him.

As their lips touched, and their tongues touched, he slid the blazer from her shoulders, and wrapped his arms around her. Her skin was silk. He never wanted to let go of her. Never wanted to let go of her. He never wanted to. He felt that. He meant it.

He pulled away from her kiss, and she clawed him back to her, cradling his face and blond hair simultaneously. He smiled, not wanting to pull away, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her neck; it was hard to blame him.

Roger kissed down her chin, and fondled her waistline, down to her plentiful, fantastically feminine hips. And proceeded to lick her neck in tantalizing swirls that sent shocks through her entire body. He traced down her cleavage with his tongue, interrupted by her bra. He flicked his sapphire eyes to her’s; asking permission with them. She laughed softly, bit her lip, and winked at him.

That was all he needed to hear. He knew. Well, he knew a lot. But these moments happen, and we pass them by in the moment, only to revisit them later and go: was that when? Was that moment when I first knew? Roger would be trapped in this cycle for a long time. Stendhal wouldn’t help this at all either. Maybe it had been the giggle? The wink? When she threw her head back and arched her back? It was hard to tell. Love looked different to different eyes. He intertwined a hand in hers, which she readily held back.

He unhooked her bra in one skilled motion, with one knowing hand. He slipped it off one arm, and they broke touch with their other hands to remove it completely. The break in touch lasted for a second. No more.

She sifted a hand to his black pants, and began slowly undoing the button, the zipper. Each movement an important step in seduction, each second a path to exquisite foreplay.

Roger began kissing Lydia again. He pinched one of her nipples hard, until she moaned in his mouth. He hastily traveled down her decolletage once more, carefully licking her other nipple. Then, he started biting. Softly at first, then hard. He moved to the tender skin around her nipple, and bit crescent moons around her breast in one elegant line. Each bite was harder than the last, and each level of intensity made her writhe and shine, and made him grow tumescent, surrounded by black and white masterpieces.

His black pants were off, and she moved to his white shirt, though concentration was growing more and more difficult with each passing bite, with each passing second. He moved a hand slowly down, and up underneath what remained of her dress. She was wet already when he felt her tenderly. He pulled back from her breast, and gazed into her eyes–only dark to him, for all color was gone, but he hadn’t noticed that sensation any more than he could pinpoint the exact second he knew he loved her.

He wanted to make love to her, to look her in the eyes as he gave her pleasure; he wanted a connection, he wanted intimacy, he wanted vulnerability. He was a stranger in a strange land. Where was that prick Plato when you needed him, he thought, fleetingly.

His fingers worked around her clit, and she pulled herself close to his white tee-shirt, clinging to him. She sighed in his ear, and the sound of her breath caused him such shocking ecstasy he couldn’t put it into words, let alone music. His other hand found her neck, her face, and he pulled her back, so he could look at her. This was surprisingly tender, not rough, yet not negotiable. He could easily please her, and only her, forever, and count himself a happy man.

Lydia put her hand on his, and they looked at each other, as he slowly massaged her. She deftly slipped a hand around his cock, and began tracing his length in rhythm with his movements.

Roger was startled at how close he could be with someone without being inside them. This was entirely new to him. Everything about this feeling, about this closeness, was entirely new. Was this love? Was this Stendhal?

It was both.

They still had half their clothes on, and yet he had never felt closer to anyone.

They were up against the door now, holding each other’s heads, sliding their hands skillfully to pleasure the other. And in every gesture, love was there. In every movement, care occupied a space.

Time escaped them, and it was hard to blame them.


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian May asks, “If you knew the outcome of an argument before you had it, would you still have it?”

“You’ve ruined me.” Roger Taylor yelled, throwing his arms up in the air. This was pure Taylorean melodrama at its finest. He was wearing an odd combination of borrowed clothes he’d never pick out on his own, which made it worse; clothes were confidence for Roger, and this get up made him feel like…well, like a jock in a porno flick. The yellow sweatshirt of Freddie’s made him look like a lemon cake with light frosting at the top. Jim had fitted him in a pair of his white pants; saying he had plenty, and no one would notice if one pair went missing. He had then called him a dessert, which Rog thought was generous considering his swollen eyes from crying, his burning throat from vomiting all afternoon and evening, and his lack of glasses meaning he couldn’t see anything. He was a mess. A lemon cake mess. An upside down cake. His life had turned upside down, and now he had to right it, shift it back into place, and fix what he had destroyed through his own hubris. Roger Taylor was, if anything, a tragic hero; and, yes, you could quote him on that.

This was perhaps fitting, since tragic heroes typically couldn’t see, and he had made himself blind to everything raging and building in his heart. Even sans glasses, now that he could see, however, he had to admit he did look like a lemon cake, and he didn’t like it; Roger hated every second of not being in control. And his attack of Stendhal had rendered him quite hopeless and aimless; colors were slowly returning, he felt less anxious, less insane. This was due to the fact he had decided to commit and not ignore his feelings, something is rarely did; love made people afraid, especially if they thought they didn’t deserve it. The second he realized what he wanted to be doing the rest of his life–who he wanted to be with–he didn’t want to spend one more second not doing that. Once he made a choice, he went with it to the hilt. More hero imagery to stroke his ego, just how he liked it. So, his easy option was to borrow clothes and rush over to the one person he needed to see above all others. This choice was the only choice. “You’ve ruined me,” he repeated, stomping a purple-shoed foot on the floor to punctuate his feelings. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“I am.” Lydia glared back at him. “I bloody well am. Do you think it is some cosmic treat having you come into my life and turn it upside down? You’ve ruined me too. Completely.” She turned away from him, in her slinky tea-length black dress and over large cut-off denim vest. Her black lipstick was mesmerizing and dramatic; Roger fell in love with her even more, every second was a rehearsal for falling, a practice in devotion. They were in her art studio, which, until recently, had been filled with started canvases covered in black paint. They had all been rough sketches, waiting to take form in her violent slashing monochromatic art. Now, they all looked entirely different. Plans changed. She had. “Orange” and “Purple” had happened to her. Roger had happened to her.

There was color there, in her art, now. And her in heart, too.

Now, they would always be color.

“Most people would be honored if I did, you know that? Begging for it. Beggin’ for me, mate.” He shot back looking at painting after painting. He was having a hard time maintaining his scowl; he knew the sudden eruption of color in her life had been because of him just as much as the lack of it for him had been because of her. Everything was her, now. What a pair they made.

Lydia looked back over her shoulder at him, and said, “Oh, I’m sure some people would be.” A strap of her dress slid slowly down her shoulder as if she had planned it; maybe she had. Her skin was glittery with rage, which made her all the more beautiful. Everything she wore was a battle plan, every shoe a declaration of war. Roger couldn’t take his eyes off the slit in her dress, running all the way up; her skin-colored tights had small red sequins sewed into them at random, enticing spots. When the strap on her dress fell, he was compelled to put it right and kiss her shoulder, her neck, but he stopped himself from giving in that easily; he was equal to her vim after all. He had techniques to break her, too. It was unfortunate he looked like a literal dessert, however. His power wasn’t his own. Lemon cake did nothing for him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His cerulean eyes narrowed.

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Check your ego; not everyone wants to fuck you.”

“Hard disagree, Lydia.” Roger said, smiling sweetly. “Everyone wants to fuck me. All the time. It is all people think when they look at me. It was all you saw. When we met. Don’t pretend it wasn’t.”

She froze, and slowly turned around to face him properly. She put her hands on her hips, tapping a gold-pointed heel at him with every word. “What did you just say to me?” Every word was slow, every word was weighted. She licked her lips. Waiting.

“When you approached me in the bar, were you thinking anything else but ‘there’s that famous bloke, I wonder what he’s like in bed?’” He was sinking his blade into her. One inch at a time. Enjoying every damn second.

“I was thinking other thoughts, Roger…that’s not fair.” She said demurred. “And you know it.”

“Oh? Precisely what other queries were you thinking when you licked my hand?” Roger asked cockily, hands on his hips, smirk on his lips. “What?” He lifted a hand up to his ear, leaning in towards her. “Don’t have a clever retort for that? Everyone wants to fuck me; but, you’re the only one I want to fuck, Lydia.”

“I feel like that’s what you’re doing right now.” Lydia sighed exasperatedly. “Is this supposed to be romantic or something? Am I supposed to swoon after being insulted? Go wow! How lucky I am: he just said he loves me! After calling me a whore.”

“You’re putting words in my mouth…”

“Which words?”

It was now or never.

“I didn’t call you a whore.”

She waited for him to take the other part back, but he didn’t.

“As for loving you, those are words I want to pull from my lips every day for the rest of my life. You’ll get used to it.”

“Roger! Now isn’t the time for romance like that! We’re fighting!” She was getting close to being defeated and they both knew it. She was crumbling all her defenses in front of him. She couldn’t help it. But she could put on a good show of it, at least. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t entirely want to believe your sweeping romantic declaration.”

“Listen,” Roger said, “I could have anyone.”

“Well, rub it in, asshole! That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Lydia: I could have anyone. What does it mean that I’m here with you? Really think about it. You know the answer; you’re just as brilliant as I am.” He placed a hand over his heart. “In here.” He couldn’t believe such romantic words were coming out of his mouth, he really couldn’t. And yet here he was, trying to profess his love, and royally cocking it up. But he was trying, and that’s what mattered. It was all that mattered in the end. If he had to choose one thing to do right for the rest of his life, it would be this.

“If you could have anyone, and you’re here with me,” Lydia said, “it means I’m the one you want.”

“Yes.” He answered. “Unequivocally.”

“You’re the worst person I know.”

“I don’t expect that will change.” Roger said, slowly closing the distance between them, testing the waters.

“I won’t let you win. Just like that.” Lydia said, grasping at straws.

“I don’t expect you to, nor do I want you to.”

Lydia sighed, still not entirely convinced.

“Listen,” Roger said, risking it all. “I love you.”

“You’re insane!” Lydia back away from him a step, but only one. “Are you crazy or something? I swear to God, Roger, if you answer with any form of ‘crazy for you’ I will punch you.”

Roger smiled, and licked his lips; he had already been punched once that night, why not risk it again?

“I take it back!” Lydia shirked. “I know what that face means; you’d like it too much.”

“I love you.” He took a step towards her.

“You can’t.” Lydia said softly. “It’s been–what? Two days?”

“I love you. Two days? Two hours?” He took another step towards her. “Does it matter, really? We can date for months or years, and it would all equal the same exact thing, it would all circle back to the same realization: we’d look back and say we knew then, and ‘then’ would be the day we met. So why wait?”

She stopped.

“Why wait? When we know?” Roger took another step towards her. “I love you. Love me.”

Lydia was running out of alternatives.

“Wait! Y/N! Stop.” Deacy said, running after you up the first flight of stairs towards your apartment. This assent was very different from the last art deco climb the two of you shared together. This was equally as personal, but entirely less intimate, less touchy-feely, less sexy. It was just as urgent, equally as passionate, and definitely oddly alluring.

“I already know what you’re going to say; so save it.” You said, resting at the crest of the first landing, catching your breath. You wanted to get away from him and collect your thoughts. So many mixed emotions were rushing through your head and you needed time to sort through them. You had punched Roger Taylor, and found out the man you were falling in love with had had a wife, that she had died terribly, and that he hadn’t told you personally. He should have said it before your first kiss. He should have said something; there’s always time for something like that. You make the time for it. You’d rather have the hard truths upfront than years later. You’d always rather know the truth.

“There wasn’t exactly time to tell you.” Deacy said, reaching for your hand. For the first time, he had become predictable. Predicable in action and words, and you didn’t particularly care for it.

You pulled away. “I didn’t exactly like being told by Jim. By Jim. You should have been the one to tell me. You. Not him.”

“I should have told you, I would like to have told you.”

“It shouldn’t have been someone I had just met yesterday.”

“You just met me yesterday.” Deacy’s voice was cold, hard, and factual in its cruelty.

“You had your tongue down my throat, and your hands inside me yesterday; I think that moves up our level of knowing each other regardless of time, don’t you?” You fired back, venom in your voice, dripping down your hands.

“Fair point” He said. His voice was tired. He was tired; there was so much drama here suddenly, and before it had been simple, elegant, and effortless. He sighed. He wished he could have told you differently, that this moment wasn’t happening on a staircase in the middle of the night; something about the setting made it rushed and terrible like an afterthought. This wasn’t how he wanted to be having this conversation, nor the moment he wanted to be stuck in, and yet he relentlessly rocked back to it time and again, like a glutton for punishment, kicked upon the rocky beach by ruthless waves; everything always came back to Veronica.

You breathed deliberately, with cause, and said, voice barely above a whisper. “You had a wife.”

“Yes.” He said. “And she died.”

You looked at each other, then. There was a shrug in his gaze. As if you were recounting the death of someone less personal, someone you both had never met, but read about it in a newspaper, or history textbook. It wasn’t a vise upon his heart at this moment. It was simply a fact of his life and her’s. Veronica had lived and then she had died. These things happened every single day. And it had happened to them.

“The fact of her death will never change. It is immovable. Her death is a fact. It always will be. She died. I didn’t.” He was angry, you noticed. Maybe even resentful. There was a dire acceptance in his voice you had never heard before. “She died, but I didn’t.” His voice was gruff and his eyes were shining. “I’m not required to die too just because she did. I don’t have to mourn forever. She died. I didn’t.”

“She was the most important person in your life.”

“Yes. She was.” And he spoke this next truth for the first time, and felt it coarse through his body like a tonic. “But she isn’t anymore.”

His grey eyes met yours. You were two hands holding again. Something had shifted.

“When should I have told you?” He stood close to you, a stance of apology in his body language. He wanted this knowledge for future reference, you realized.

“Before you touched me with love on your hands and in your eyes.”

“I should have stopped myself and told you in the moment?” He asked.

“Yes. It would have stopped the action, I might have been shocked, or even concerned. But I wouldn’t have been angry, and you wouldn’t have been a liar; those two things are true now, however. And whereas I can forgive them, and you, I will always wonder what you’re keeping from me.”

“I never want to keep anything from you.”

“Then don’t; it’s that simple.” You sighed. “We’ve just met; not everything needs to be this urgent or melodramatic. We don’t need to rush into anything.”

“I’m not rushing; when you’ve had a partner die, it tends to put things into perspective.” Deacy took your hand. “Here’s the thing: I haven’t felt this way about someone in ages, and I want to explore what that means. It isn’t a promise of forever, or even of love, but of seeing what this is between us and what it can be.”

“I could agree to that…” you said lightly.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings for you beyond liking you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t; if you don’t lie about something so important again, you won’t. I’m not made of glass, Deacy. I can take what you have to say about your past without shattering.”

Freddie was guarded, looking at his husband behind a mask. He had, perhaps, made a huge mistake, and it was about to come back to haunt him fully and forcefully.

“You don’t understand.” Jim said. He was pacing. Jim always paced when he had something on his mind, something important to say. He was whipping up and down the aqua-colored living room like an athlete doing laps. His white pants and red shirt made him look like an Italian race car driver. “You always understand, but this you bloody well don’t.”

“I’m trying, darling.” Freddie watched Jim’s frantic pacing, wondering if he should intercept him, hold him, embrace him. Maybe best to let him get it out first, he reasoned. He straightened his yellow tank top to occupy his hands and his mind.

“It comes down to who I am. It is who I am. Freddie, listen to me; you stopped me from being who I am.” Jim’s words were frantic and kinetic; Freddie knew his husband needed to get the words out to move past them.

Freddie’s brow pulled together sharply. “Who you are is someone who’d beat up my best friend?”

“Peripherally, yes; what he said was irredeemable.”

“And he needed to be what? Taught a lesson?”

“Yes.”

“And by you?” It was a fight now. Not an act, not entirely foreplay, but just then it had slipped into an actual fight.

“If not me–who?” Jim asked loudly? “I didn’t see any of you all, who’ve known him forever–his best friends–do anything! None of you jumped up to stop him. That poor girl shouldn’t have had to defend Deacy. You all should have jumped at the chance to defend him. Literally shot up out of your seats.”

“And punched him?”

“You should have stopped him. Because it was the right thing to do. It was the moral thing. That would have been being a good friend.”

“We would have been good friends to beat Roger up?”

“You’re held up on the delivery when its the message that matters. You could have used your words. Anything. I wanted to act. I wanted to stop him. And you stopped me. You stopped me from categorically doing the right thing, Freddie.”

There was a silence in the room, interrupted only by the soft mewing and skidding around of the litter of cats romping around the room.

“I need to do the right thing, Fred.”

“It’s who you are, darling.” Freddie said.

“Yes.”

“I know that. I hear that. You’re the best person I know. Always striving to do what’s right in every situation. You are admirable. Gracious. Handsome. Uniquely right. You are ethical when most people want to shy and runaway. I treasure that about you.”

“Then why stop me?”

“Listen,”

“Don’t say ‘listen’ like that. Nothing good ever comes after that word.”

“Listen, darling…” Freddie smiled; he couldn’t help himself.

“How can I fight that?”

“You can’t.”

Jim stopped pacing, and sat in an armchair, waiting for Freddie to continue.

“You cannot just go around beating people up, especially Roger. Even if Roger deserves it. And we all know sometimes he does. I refuse to believe beating someone up is the right thing to do categorically, to use your word.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Jim said, stubbornly.

“You could have used your words.”

“It wasn’t enough. You saw him. He was manic.”

“Okay. How about this then: Queen is a public figure. I cannot have my husband, whom I love more than anything, going around beating up our drummer.”

“You cannot have it? Like you’re forbidding me from beating up Roger Taylor?” It was almost funny. And under any other circumstances, Jim and Freddie would have been laughing about it. “It sounds like an order. A command.”

“Think of it as more of a very strong suggestion. Roger has a bit of the madness in him, darling. He’d put you in jail just to spite you, even if he knew he deserved whatever you did to him.”

“You of all people could afford to bail me out of jail.”

“Yes, that’s not the point, dear.”

“Isn’t the point: don’t beat up Roger for my own safety? Because, newsflash, darling, I don’t care about my own safety.”

“Well, I do.”

“I thought the point was you stopping me from being who I am, and doing the right thing.”

“I don’t agree it was the right thing. There were other options before punching him out.”

“Yeah, options none of you took; easy for you to say then, Fred.”

“Back to this again?”

“We will circle back to it until it is solved, my love.” Jim said, smiling and spreading his arms out in a gesture that should have been welcoming but really meant bring it, bitch.

“I have another option.” Freddie sat on the elaborate teal-colored leather sofa. He crossed his legs. Raised a perfect eyebrow at his husband.

“I’m listening.”

“We skip to the part where we’re having rage/makeup sex?”

“Tempting…” Jim said, trying to focus on the matter at hand and not his sudden overwhelming desire for his husband. “This doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“No, of course not; if anyone is right here, it’s you.”

“You’re not just saying that to expedite things…?”

“Darling, you know I hate admitting when others are right. Especially when it means I’m not.”

“Right.” Jim licked his lips.

“Right.” Freddie tilted his head, and bit his lip.

“I have no idea how to make this album.” Brian pulled nervously at his hair.

“You’ll find a way.” Miami bought them another round.

“I can’t.”

“You must. Contracts are a bitch.” He clicked his glass with Brian’s.

“Yes, so are you.”


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let me take you honey, where the scene’s on fire, And tonight I learned for certain that the blues expired.

Freddie Mercury absentmindedly stroked Delilah’s fur. She looked up at him with mostly love, some concern, and a dollop of annoyance; his fingers would play down her back, twirl around her tail, then creep up to her head, where he’d scratch behind her ears, and resume the whole process from the start. He was stuck in a fluffy loop of thoughtfulness tinged with avoidance. He didn’t want to think, but in not wanting to think, he was, indeed, thinking of just that which he didn’t want to think.

“Bloody paradoxes even when those rhythm and blues boys aren’t around…” he said to Delilah, all fire and dread.

She meeped in sullen agreement. Fuck those boys, she seemed to say.

“You’re right; they are fuck boys.” Freddie preened at her.

Delilah meowed back: that’s not what I said, and you know it.

But Freddie was lost in thought again. Memory has many paths, and whether we like it or not, we will walk those frosty paths forever. And Jim was a breath full of arctic air, freezing his lungs, making him pay attention.

Jim kept buzzing around his mind no matter what he did. He was metallic cold pinpricks in his mind. Sweeping little icicle jabs reminding him of earlier tonight and that absolute joke of a dinner party. This record was already a disaster and a single note hadn’t been recorded. Maybe none would be at this rate.

Delilah mewed at him again. She always understood; this is why she was his favorite. He didn’t hold with not having favorites. Favorite were his specialty. Even with pets he had a favorite; he assumed, if he and Jim ever had children someday in the far future, he’d have a favorite kid among them, too. Freddie clung to favorites like most people clutched to dreams; it was, perhaps, his never-ending drive to banish loneliness from his life. A favorite person, a favorite pet, a book, a film could erase every nagging insecurity from one’s mind. For, even surrounded by love, or by people, there he was, that gnawing wolf of loneliness lurking in the back of his mind, hunting him, waiting for a true solitary moment to make his deadly strike. Right now, he felt keenly aware of his emotions. He was disappointed in himself, which only helped to serve his feelings of isolation. An emotion worn like a cape, designed to keep others from getting too close. He couldn’t hide his feelings well—Jim would say he couldn’t hide them at all. And, as was so often the case, Jim was right. Jim was always right.

And Jim had been right earlier, too. About the fight. Well, about both fights.

Jim and Freddie didn’t fight a lot. They had discussions where honest and difficult ideas were exchanged and embroidered upon with care and delicacy–with politeness, tact, and artistic flairs. They didn’t yell at each other.

Yelling was something other people did to each other.

They didn’t need to yell to hear each other. They always heard each other. Yelling was an unknown rarity, like vintage wine from France, or fainting in front of a piece of art, or getting goosebumps from a piece of music; experiencing these everyday things, otherwise usually commonplace, but when arranged in the perfect way, in a singular way, they transcend their objectivity to become feelings; they became tangible emotions captured by space and form made always accessible, permanent, and sublime. However, when these rare events happened, it was just as profoundly shocking as finding Freddie and Jim in a screaming match. Which is exactly what had happened earlier this night. They had yelled at each other, and paused knowing it wasn’t necessary, normal, or right. Yelling wasn’t art, it was something dark.

But Jim had been right: Freddie should have done something to defend John, and the simple truth was that he hadn’t done anything for John. In the moment he had defended Jim instead, when that wasn’t what Jim needed nor how Jim had seen or understood the action. Jim didn’t need protecting; Jim wanted to protect, and Freddie had stomped all over that impulse, and while doing so he had left John to Roger’s wrath and guilt. And now here he was alone, sulking, not knowing if John was okay, knowing Roger had temporarily lost his mind, and knowing he needed to resolve this argument with Jim instead of ignoring it. John had suffered so much in the past few years, and now right when happiness was falling into his grasp once more, would it be swept away because of Roger’s impertinence and his own failure to act appropriately? But should he have let Jim have a go at Roger? If he had allowed it, wouldn’t Roger be in the hospital now? Jim was a bruiser–it was one of the things Freddie loved about him the most. And the press, god, if they heard about this incident…

Freddie knew he needed to process all of this. And to do so, he needed a friend; he knew precisely who he needed to call.

He scooped up Delilah in his arms and flitted out of the bedroom, wrapped in his sunset kimono. He left their bedroom where Jim was peacefully dozing, lost in some dream. Kittens and cats followed in Freddie’s wake, padding after him as if he were the pied piper.

“Hello little, darlings.” He called softly to them.

Delilah looked down on her fellow pack, secure in the knowledge that she was the favorite.

Retreating into the kitchen below, he picked up the receiver of the phone. He dialed a number, and waited, hoping they’d be awake, and knowing better.

A frenetic voice answered, “I hope you, whoever’s calling this number, of all numbers, knows how to use a watch, and can read it.”

“Skip it, Sharon; it’s an emotional emergency.”

“Isn’t everything an emotional emergency with you?” The voice had softened, recognizing the voice on the other end, but kept its rapid-fire nature.

“Darling, that simply isn’t fair, and you know it.” Freddie was smiling, though; he knew Sharon was smiling, too.

“Meet at the one place with the pancakes I like in twenty minutes, love?”

“The one with the sprinkles and ice cream?” Freddie asked.

“That’s the ticket, sugar bear.”

“You’re still dressed?” Freddie was trying to suss out Sharon’s state of intoxication, but it was a pointless inquiry; he knew his friend of old, and knew their scandalous and scintillating habits as well as he knew his own.

“Bold of you to assume I’ve been to bed at all.” There was that wry humor Freddie so cherished in his unparalleled friend.

“Alright,” Freddie said, quite mollified, “see you in twenty, Sharon.”

“Ta-ta, Melina.”

Freddie had picked out a booth in the back. He adjusted his tight yellow jeans, made sure his navy leather jacket was carefully folded on the seat next to him. He fiddled with the coffee cup in front of him, all nervous energy and anticipation. He straightened his white and red Flash Gordon shirt. Waiting for Sharon to stumble in, he gazed at the menu, even though he knew it by heart. This was their favorite haunt in the wee hours of the morning, in the between times when it is both night and morning simultaneously.

The bell above the door tingled, and his friend staggered through the doorway. Freddie still enjoyed some anonymity–his friend, did not. He was wearing a striped red and black blazer, with a gaudy straw hat, navy slacks with a high cuff, and a white button-down with a pearl embellished lapel so ostentatious it could only belong to one person. Freddie did like the shoes though; they were bright red jewel-encrusted oxfords.

People stared as Elton John gazed around the diner. He spotted Freddie Mercury, and headed to the back like a race car.

“Sorry I’m late, Melina.” Elton said, bending down and kissing Freddie’s cheek.

“You’re not late, Sharon.” Freddie said lightly, not critically.

“Oh, I’m not? I feel late.” Elton said, taking a sip of his coffee. “Maybe I’m remembering another time. The time before. Last time. Maybe I’m a traveler of time.”

“Nope; you were on time then, too.”

“Well, excuse me for being perfect.” Elton said, smiling at his best friend.

“You’re excused.” Freddie said, observing the man across from him. “You are coked out of your mind, though.”

“I’m always coked out of my mind, next observation, please.”

“Fair enough.” Freddie said dancing backwards from that sticky wicket.

“You’re the one that stopped using.”

“I’m the one who fell in love and realized I didn’t need it to be happy.”

“This old tune again?” Elton sighed. “Did I really come here, out of my house, away from my vodka and tonics to hear this? I was perfectly happy there. Perfectly. Happy.” He was slowly standing up.

“No, please, sit back down. Stay. I need your advice.” Freddie put a hand on Elton’s, and his face changed.

“I was only joking.” Elton said, slipping back down in his seat. “I’d never leave you, Melina.”

“I know; I just wish you believed the same about me never leaving you.”

There was a thick silence in the air. It had the stench of an old argument around it, one that wouldn’t be settled for many more years.

“What’s going on, love?” Elton adjusted his white glasses, waiting.

The waitress approached them, then, carrying a couple plates and a tureen. She started unloading her burden, and slowly backed away from the table, smiling bemusedly at the couple in the booth.

“I took the liberty of ordering for you.” Freddie explained.

Elton was pouring a tureen of hot fudge over his pancakes topped with rainbow sprinkles, vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, and caramel glazed pecans.

Freddie dug into some eggs and toast. “Jim and I had a fight.” He admitted eventually, jamming up his buttered toast.

Elton stopped eating and sparked his true blue eyes onto his friend. “Sure sure sure.”

“We yelled at each other.”

“What?!” Elton looked like he didn’t believe Freddie; Jim and Freddie yelling at each other was simply unprecedented.

“Well, it didn’t start there. It started at a meeting for the new record.”

“Ah,” Elton took a bite, “Guessing it didn’t go well, then.”

“No, it did not.” Freddie groaned. “It ended with Roger saying something unforgivable to Johnny, and with Roger getting punched out by Johnny’s new girl.”

“Okay…” Elton put his spoon down. It clanked with a final note, a gong hit, a gunshot. “You’re skipping a few important details. Rewind and play again. From the beginning. From the top.”

“So, since you missed my party, you missed everything, apparently that has led us to this moment.”

“Go on,” Elton was tapping out a tune with his spoon and Freddie’s jam knife.

“John met this girl at the party. Very smart, very stylish, very sweet.”

“Sweet but punchy?”

“Yes.” Freddie laughed. “He certainly knows how to pick them. Anyway, they hit it off in a real way, a genuine way we hadn’t expected.”

“She found the pilot of his soul.”

“Yes; and he her’s. Except, he didn’t tell her about Veronica.”

“Well, it was the worst day of his life. I was there. It was–it is still hard to discuss for him.”

“Well, Jim told her all about it.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Fine? I guess? It doesn’t feel relevant to the fight.”

“Well, maybe not to your fight, but it is definitely pertinent to the fight Deacy and this girl are having now…”

“Right.” Freddie agreed, not having thought about that particular aftermath to be reckoned. “Anyway, darling, Roger was, unbeknownst to us, freaking out over his own feelings for this other woman, Lydia.”

“Really? Roger? Feelings?”

“I know, dear, it’s a fucking mess.”

“I’ve missed a lot; I’ll never skip one of your honky shindigs again. Scouts honor. I’ll come in kicking–spurs not optional.” Elton held up his hand and resumed eating his pancake dessert.

“Well, Roger showed up to the dinner meeting, saw this woman there with Deacy and said something about Johnny replacing Veronica already. It was truly horrid.”

Elton sat back in his seat, staring at his friend. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have punched him myself.”

“Well, that’s what Jim wanted to do and I stopped him; so y/n, Deacy’s girl, did it.”

“You stopped Jim from doing something about Roger mouthing off some trite sewage, and so y/n did what all of you should have been doing?”

“Yes, and then we–Jim and I–had a blow out over it.”

“And now you want to atone for it.”

“Yes.”

“Forgiveness is the easy part; asking for it isn’t.”

“I’m aware.”

“You don’t like being wrong.”

“Who does?”  
They smiled at each other.

“Well,” Elton he waved a hand vaguely in front of Freddie’s face. “I think the solution is pretty obvious. Clear as a bell. Right there in front of your very fine mustache.”


End file.
